


Where The Ghosts Have Voices

by HappyJuicyfruit



Category: Ghost Whisperer, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Humor, Blow Jobs, Coma, Dark Magic, Emotional Manipulation, Fluff and Smut, Ghosts, Happy Ending, Horror, Injury Recovery, John Whump, John can see ghosts, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-08-19 23:28:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8228372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyJuicyfruit/pseuds/HappyJuicyfruit
Summary: John has lived his whole life as an outcast.  It is only when he meets Sherlock, that be realizes being a freak might not be such a bad thing, and that the curse he has lived with his whole life may be a gift after all.--“Alright! I get it! No one can hide anything from you, bravo.” “I am not trying to show off, I am trying to inform you that there is no use hiding from me.” “I guess not.. but, Sherlock, look, even if I tell you, you're not going to believe me.” “I will believe the truth, John. Trust me.” “Okay, well, uh, right now I can see the victims of our latest case. They're in our kitchen.”





	1. Lost Child

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story I wrote for FallTvSeasonSherlock2016, TV Fusion season 2. The challenge is to write a fic that is combined with an old tv series (one that is no longer being aired). Since I already had this idea in mind, I figured I may as well join in on some fun! 
> 
> In this story John has the ability to see ghosts, much like Melinda in Ghost Whisperer. Also like Melinda, John helps ghosts move on. I do not think there is anything particularly triggering in the fic, but I do describe some gore, I am talking about the dead after all. There is also mention of suicide. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy the ride! :)

Chapter 1

 

John doesn't know the first time he ever saw a ghost, they have just always been around his whole life. While he was still a baby, his mother thought he was so cute and funny, always moving his head around, following things that weren't actually there. She thought it was just how her John dealt with understanding the strange new world.

 

When he was a toddler, his family had became concerned. He was quiet, and pensive, and still moving his eyes to follow things that were not there. He would babble about people who they had never met, and cry about shouting that no one else could hear.

 

Doctors that his parents took him to believed it to be an overactive imagination, a phase that would go away when he began school and met other kids his own age. The doctors assured them that schizophrenia was a disease that only came on later in life, it was impossible for their four year old to have it.

 

By the age of five, when Harriett was born, John had learned not to talk about the other people in their house that his parents could not see. He didn't want to scare his new baby sister.

 

Because that is what John first remembers, being scared.

 

The fear of the Strangers walking around covered in blood. And most of all, the fear of these Strangers when they came to him. When they would stare at him, talked or screamed at him, sometimes even hitting him, until they eventually went away on their own.

 

By the time John was eight he had figured out that they were ghosts. It was pretty obvious with the whole gory look, and no one else being able to see them; he wasn't stupid, every kid had heard ghost stories. What he couldn't figure out was why HE could see them, and why they were continually trying to talk to him. They were scary, and he just wanted to be left alone.

 

Being a constantly terrified eight year old boy did not help with making friends in school, or help convince his parents that he was normal. John would sit at their dining room table trying to reassure his parents that he was fine, while their neighbour who had committed suicide that week swung from the chandelier on their ceiling.

 

It was only when John was alone that he allowed himself to cry at the unfairness of it all.

 

When John was twelve, his parents decided that they were going on a family trip to meet distant relatives in America. His parents thought that some time away may get John to understand the world, he may change his entire personality overnight, or some similarly insane idea.

 

The plane ride was long and crowded. There was only one ghost, thank God, and it was a sweet old lady following her husband around. She kept repeating that she would haunt him until the day he died. John was happy that he could ignore her, although all of her talking made it difficult to sleep.

 

Harry, being the happy 5 year old that she was, slept the whole trip.

 

When they arrived in America, John was surprised by the heat. His mother laughed at him when he mentioned this. Apparently it was always warm in San Francisco, but the summers were especially hot compared to England. They spent the day settling into their hotel room, and then exploring a nearby beach. John found that the ghosts in California were much more relaxed than the ghosts in London.

 

It was one of the best days in young John Watson's life. Not only because of the nice warm holiday, but because this was the day that John met the girl who changed his life.

This was they day John met Melinda Gordon.

 

\--

 

The evening that the Watson clan arrived in San Francisco they met their relatives for dinner in a restaurant downtown. When they arrived at the restaurant, John was already nervous. Downtown meant crowds, and in crowded areas he had a hard time deciphering if it was a ghost talking or a person. But his parents wanted to go, so there they were.

 

The relatives looked ordinary enough. It was a mother, daughter and grandmother. The grandmother was apparently Mum's aunt, which meant the mother was her cousin. John supposed that meant that she was also his cousin in someway, but he did not know the word for it. He figured they would not be here long enough for him to have to find out.

 

The girl looked to be about his own age, maybe a year or two younger. She was talking to her grandmother when they walked in, but turned and gave him a beaming smile when they approached the table. Out of habit, John glanced at his parents, just to make sure that they could see her too. His Mum was smiling back, so John gave her a tentative smile too.

 

When they had all found seats, John found himself at the end of the table beside the girl.

 

Melinda said, “Hi!”

 

John smiled at her nervously, “hi.”

 

“You must be John! I'm Melinda, I'm your second cousin. My Grandma told me you guys flew here all the way from England! You must be tired.”

 

“Er, yeah, a bit I guess.”

 

“That's cool. I've never travelled that far before. Have you?”

 

“Um, now. Not...before.”

 

“Oh. I'm going to have the lasagna, what are you getting?”

 

“Oh! Um.” John fumbled with the menu a bit. The food looked to be mostly pasta, and most of the names were in Italian. John decided to do the easiest thing and just order the lasagna too.

 

It became obvious rather quickly that Melinda liked to chat. She also seemed fine to carry on the conversation mostly by herself, because John always had a hard time with small talk. He did not have many friends at school, and the ones he did have usually only talked about.. well, school.

 

It did not help that there was a woman outside who looked bloated and dripping. People were walking through here, and no one was offering to help. So clearly she was a ghost. Which meant she might come in here any minute and start shouting. Which meant his conversation with Melinda would go from awkward to impossible. So there was another possible friend out the window...

 

“Don't worry, my Grandma will go talk to her soon.”

 

John blinked, “what?”

 

“The lady outside, the ghost, Grandma's going to talk to her. Don't worry.”

 

John stared at her in disbelief, “you can.. can you?”

 

“Can I what?”

 

“See her!? You can see her!”

 

“Yes of course, so can you, right? It runs in the family.”

 

“It does?!” John turned toward to the rest of the table, looking at his mother sitting across from him.

 

“Mum,” John said, “can you see ghosts too?”

 

His mother, who was currently trying to make sure that Harry ended up with most of her food in her mouth instead of the floor looked up distractedly, “ghosts? Honey, what are you talking about.”

 

“Melinda can see ghosts, it's not just me!”

 

Melinda's mother said, “oh God Melinda, not this again.”

 

John frowned in confusion, “you can't see them too?”

 

“Of course not, dear, there is nothing there. Melinda, drop this before you give Mommy a headache.”

 

His own mother was still not paying attention, and Melinda's mother turned back to talk to his Dad.

 

“But you can, can't you?” John asked, “This isn't a joke?”

 

Melinda said, “no, of course not! Grandma can see them too. See?” Melinda pointed outside, where her grandmother was now talking to the wet ghost, “she helps them move on to the Otherside. I help sometimes, too.”

 

“The other side?”

 

“Yea, come on,” Melinda grabbed his hand, and dragged him out of his chair. He followed her out of the restaurant to the sidewalk.

 

The ghost was actually not as bloated as John had thought she was. And as he watched, she was getting dryer by the second.

“What's happening?” he asked Melinda.

 

“Grandma is finding out how she died, and if there is anything left here that she needs to do. Then, when we figure out what is keeping her here, she can move on to the Otherside.”

 

“What's the other side?”

 

Suddenly, a bright light started to shine right behind the ghost. John had to squint his eyes just to see her anymore. She was beautiful.

 

“That light takes them to the Otherside, isn't it beautiful?”

 

“Cor, I've never seen anything like it.”

 

When the lady walked through the light, she disappeared. A moment later, the light went away too. John blinked his eyes, and then whipped a hand across his face. He was surprised to pull it back wet.

 

Melinda gave him a gentle smile, “it makes me cry sometimes too.”

 

John blushed, he was crying in front of a girl in San Francisco. But he didn't really care, this changed everything. This changed his whole life!

 

“Oh John, are you alright?” Melinda's Grandma asked him.

 

“Ye- yeah,” John cleared his throat, “can you teach me how to do that?”

 

“Of course, dear,” She gave his shoulder a squeeze before gently pushing him back towards the door, “I'll tell you what, let me talk to your mother after dinner tonight. Then we can spend the rest of your trip together figuring all of this out.”

 

John nodded. He couldn't stop smiling.

Finally, finally he had an answer.

 

\--

 

John spent the week talking to ghosts with Melinda and her Grandma. His parents still did not believe that John was talking to ghosts, but they were relieved that John was spending time with someone his age. While his parents, sister, and Melinda's mother explored San Francisco, John had the crash course of his life.

 

“Now dear, you must remember that a spirit only crosses over when he or she is ready. You can encourage all you want, but in the end it has to be their decision,” Grandma June reminded him.

 

John nodded, watching the ghost as he walked across the park.

 

“Sometimes these things take time. Remember how the spirit at the restaurant only needed a few minutes of talking, but the last spirit took three days.”

“Yes,” John nodded again.

 

“Okay. I'm not coming this time, so you and Melinda will have to help him on your own. But I will be right over here if you need me.”

 

Melinda said, “we understand Grandma. We will see you in a bit!”

 

Together, they jogged towards the ghost that was now sitting on a bench beside the fountain. As they approached, the man glanced at them but didn't say anything. He just continued to stare in front of him at nothing.

 

“Hello sir, sorry to bother you, but my name is Melinda Gordon and this is my cousin John Watson,” Melinda said. John had noticed that she liked to introduce herself at the beginning of most conversations.

 

The man did not reply, but he did nod a bit so that was good.

 

John said, “we were wondering if there was anything you needed help with?”

 

The man furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, “help?”

 

“Yeah. Like is there anything that you need to do or say to someone?”

 

The man finally turned to face them. John noticed that he was quite old, older than Grandma June, “why on earth would I need your help with that?”

 

“Well, because I don't think you can do those things anymore..”

 

“John!” Melinda interrupted.

 

“What?”

 

Melinda turned her head so that the ghost wouldn't be able to see her face and whispered, “I don't think he knows.”

 

“Knows what?”

 

“That he's dead, I don't think he knows.”

 

“Oh..” John frowned, feeling a bit lost. The three ghosts that they had helped had always just told Grandma June what they wanted her to do, “well, what do we do now?”

 

“How about we...” Melinda glanced back at the man, who had returned to staring blankly forward, “just ask him what he is doing at the park. Maybe his spirit brought him here for a reason.”

 

John nodded, “okay,” he said before turning back to the man, “um, sir? We were wondering what brought you here to the park today?”

 

“Hmm?”

“Well, it's just, why are you at the park? Where do you live?”

 

“Well I.. I live in a home. An annoying home,” the man frowned, “they never let me leave on my own. I'm always being followed around.”

 

Given the man's age, John assumed that it was probably for a good reason.

 

“But how..” the man continued, “I don't remember how I got here. The last thing I remember was falling asleep last night, and thinking that I wished I could spend just one more day outside of the bloody home alone and I would be happy.”

 

John and Melinda exchanged glances.

  
“All alone?” Melinda asked.

 

“Yes. I think, I think that is what I need.”

 

“Okay, sorry for having bothered you.”

 

John and Melinda took a few steps away from the man, before turning to each other again.

 

“What do you think?” John asked.

 

“I think we should leave, and come back to check on him at sunset. If he is still here we can try again.”

 

John nodded, and followed Melinda back towards her Grandma.

 

They spent the day hanging out at Melinda's house. They played cards, and ate ice cream. It was actually pretty brilliant. After dinner with Grandma June, the three of them made their way back over to the park once more. The man had moved from the bench, and was now lying in the middle of a grassy field beside the park.

 

John and Melinda approached cautiously.

 

“Sir? How are you feeling now?” John asked when they were about a foot away from the ghost.

 

“Better,” the man turned towards them and smiled. He looked years younger than he had this morning.

 

“Are you ready now? To move on to the other side?”

 

The man stared at them for a second, before turning his head back towards the sky.

 

“So it's true then? I have died?”

 

“umm..I,,” John stammered.

 

“Yes. I'm sorry.” Melinda said. She was calmer than he had ever seen her. John wished that he could act like that in an awkward situation.

 

The man did not seem upset though. Instead, he began to smile. Turning towards Melinda again he asked, “will I get to see my Millie again?”

 

“Yes,” Melinda nodded, “once you are on the Otherside, you will be at peace.”

 

The man nodded, and then stood up. Like the other ghosts with Grandma June, a light appeared beside the man. The man walked into the light and he was gone.

 

Melinda and John stood together for a moment, staring at the spot that the man had just been standing in.

 

“You're really good at that,” John whispered.

 

Melinda smiled, putting her hand on his arm, “you are too John.”

 

\----


	2. Wise Beyond My Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's experiences as he grows up trying to juggle school, parents, and ghosts.

A week later, John was back in England. Alone. Again.

 

He had had a few ghost sightings, but none had approached him and he was too afraid to walk up to them on his own.

 

But on the first friday afternoon back from his trip, John ran into a new ghost. He was sitting at John's desk when he got him from school. This one wasn't so scary, he didn't have any blood on him only deep circles under his eyes. John could tell by now who was a ghost by more than just blood anyway, they had a feel to them, a weird.. force or whatever. Melinda called it a presence.

 

With Melinda in mind, gathered all of his courage. Closing the door behind him and balling his hands into fists, John took a step forward.

 

And then a step back.

 

John's mind began to whirl, what if this didn't work? What if they never answered him? What if without Grandma June nearby, they attacked him?

Eventually, the ghost turned his eyes towards John and they made eye contact. John felt fear crawl down his spine. Trying to regain the courage he had felt with Melinda, John squared his jaw and whispered, “why are you here?”

 

The man looked John over critically and then sighed, turning to look out the window again, “I don't know. I was _trying_ to kill myself.”

 

Well, that wasn't scary at all. The man seemed more annoyed than frightening. Courage rising, John took a step forward, “Uh, you did.”

 

The man turned back to him and seemed to study him, so John studied him back. He had black curly hair with some bits of grey, he was pretty tall even sitting at Johns desk, he had dark brown eyes that seemed to look right through John, making him doubt himself. Maybe this was scary after all..

 

“Perhaps I did succeed, are you dead as well? You look rather frightened.”

 

“Uh, no. I'm alive. This is my room.”

 

“If you're alive, how can you see me? Am I not a ghost?”

 

“You are, I can just.. I can see..” John trailed off and began to cling his hands together. God this was going horribly, maybe being scared was better than embarrassed.

 

The man raised an eyebrow, “you can see dead people?”

 

John slowly nodded his head, “uh, yea.”

 

This seemed to gain all of the man's attention, “how long have you been able to do this?”

 

John began to fidget with the pockets on his uniform, “dunno, as long as I remember.”

 

The man leaned in towards John, elbows on knees, “fascinating, my sons would love you.”

 

“Sons?”

 

“Hmm yes, two of them, nine and sixteen, my youngest loves gore and crime, I'm sure you two would get along. You're, what, eight?”

 

John bristled, “I'm twelve!”

 

“Oh, rather short for your age.”

 

John continued to bristle, “stop talking about me! Why are you in my room!?”

 

The man continued to inspect John, as if the answer as to why he could see ghosts would pop out of his face somewhere. “Not sure, woke up here after swallowing a bottle of pills. Been siting here for about an hour, you have a nice collection of ghost novels, Mr. Watson.”

 

Far less bristled after finally getting some answers, John went back to fiddling his buttons, “how do you know my name?”

 

“I've been sitting in your room for an hour, John, I know a bit about you.”

 

“Oh..” by now one of the buttons was in danger of entirely falling off, “well, what's your name?”

 

“Sigurson Holmes.”

 

John decided to get straight to the point as the man didn't seem to enjoy beating around the bush,

“Mr. Holmes, why did you kill yourself?”

 

Mr. Holmes waved his hand like it was unimportant, “I had to.”

 

“You had to? What about your sons?”

 

At that Mr. Holmes finally turned away from John, leaning away back into the chair, “I had to do it for them.”

 

John wasn't having any of that, he took a step forward, “don't you think they'd rather have you alive?”

 

The man stared out the window sadly, “I'm sure they would.. I'm not sure you would understand at your young age, John, but their futures were at stake. I had enemies who were threatening my sons inheritance and more. When Sherlock was attacked last week I knew it had to be done. I will not put my life over theirs.”

 

John was silent for a while. He needed to help Mr Holmes so he could move on to the other side, he hoped jut talking would work.

 

“Did you tell them?” Mr. Holmes head swivelled towards him when John spoke.

 

“What?”

 

“Did you tell them why you did it?”

 

Mr. Holmes scowled, “of course not, my plan wouldn't have worked if I had..”

 

“But maybe that's why you're still here, maybe if you tell them, you'll be at peace.”

 

“Even if that were true, how the bloody hell am I supposed to tell them now, John? I'm dead!” Mr Holmes yelled, and then slammed his hand onto John's desk, knocking over his pencil case and causing John to jump about a foot away from him.

 

John put his hands over his eyes, counting to ten. One of his many therapists had taught him how to do this, back when they still thought there was a cure for John's weirdness. After he calmed down a bit he peeked out between his fingers to see that Mr. Holmes was looking at him with regret but before either of them could say anything his bedroom door opened.

 

“John dear, everything alright?” His mum carried in John's usual after school snack of PB&J with apple juice, she placed it right in front of Mr. Holmes, cleaning up his pencils that had fallen over the floor and placing them back without so much at glancing at the strange man sitting in her sons bedroom, “Oh honey, don't worry about some spilled pencils. See? They're fine,” his mum touched his hair, John fought the urge to flinch away. “Maybe later you can play outside with Harry, yea? Playing with Harry doesn't scare you, right?”

 

John fought the urge to roll his eyes, “no, mum, Harry's fine, I'll play with her later.”

 

“Okay sweetie, remember to do your homework first though,” his mum called over her shoulder as she walked out of his room.

 

Sighing, John closed the door behind her, choosing to stand and stare at the door for a second instead of facing the ghost in his room who had just witnessed his embarrassing life.

 

Before he could get the strength to turn around though, Mr. Holmes began to talk first, “John, I apologize. It appears I am not the first ghost to come into your room and scare you. Forgive me, that

was not my intention.”

 

John turned and gave Mr. Holmes a tight smile, “s'okay, Mr. Holmes.”

 

“Please, call me Sigurson. And no, it is not okay. You were only trying to help and I scared you. By your reaction – and your mothers comments – I can only assume others have done worse?”

 

John slowly nodded, not wanting to talk about it.

 

“Then on behalf of all of us ghosts, I apologize for them too.”

 

“... Thank you.”

 

They fell into a mutual silence, each pondering their own thoughts. John gained his courage back again and sat across from Sigurson in his bed, munching on his sandwich.

 

After half an hour he broke the silence, “do you think.... do you think maybe you could let me help you write a letter or something to your sons? I think maybe thats why you ghosts come to me..”

 

“You do not have to help me, I soon as I find a way to leave this room I will not bother you anymore.”

 

John shook his head, “I want to help. My cousin and her Grandma help ghosts in the States, they taught me how so that I can help ghosts here.”

 

“You are sure?” Siguerson gave him an assessing look.

 

“Definitely. So, a letter?”

 

“It is worth a try. If you could wait a week before sending the letter I would be much obliged.”

 

“Okay,” John smiled.

 

Together they constructed a letter addressed to Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. In it John wrote about how Sigurson had no other choice, how his death was meant to help their futures, and how he still loved them both. At the end he said that none of this was a good enough excuse, but he hoped that they would forgive him someday. Sigurson decided to sign it Sigurson Holmes and Anonymous, and not leave a return address. Apparently even the stamp was dangerous, because both of his sons could be able to trace anything back to its source with enough information. John did not really believe him, but he went along with it anyway.

 

It was strange to see such an adult letter in John's messy childish scrawl, hopefully Sherlock and Mycroft would believe it.

 

With the letter sealed with an address and stamps sitting on Johns desks, Sigurson put a hand on John's shoulder and smiled down at him.

 

“Thank you for letting me help, Sigurson.”

 

“No, thank you John Watson,” Sigurson squeezed his shoulder.

 

They both stood for a moment, waiting. But nothing happened. John had been half expecting a light to appear as soon as the letter was placed in the envelope.

 

“Perhaps I need to see you place the letter in the post?” Sigurson asked.

 

John sighed, why was everything always more complicated than it had to be?

 

\--

 

A week later John put their letter into the post. Sigurson leaned against the mailbox and waited.

 

“No light?”

 

Sigurson sighed, “no light.”

 

John groaned, turning to head back to his house. Sigurson, as always, began to follow him. The man had been following him all week. Sigurson followed John around his house, and even all the way to his school. Sig commented on teachers and students, making jokes and 'deductions'. John thought it was hilarious, if not a bit annoying. The other students thought it was strange when John couldn't help smiling at something Sig had said, and John was worried that they now thought he was weirder than they did before!

 

Sigurson told him that he should not care what they thought, John was better than the lot anyway. John appreciated him saying that, but he did not really believe it.

 

John had offered to try other things to help Sig move on, but he had refused. Apparently his sons were the most important thing to him, and nothing else could possibly be the reason he was here. So here they were, waiting for the day when John could finally post the letter. And it hadn't even worked!

 

“Do you think I will have to go see them in person?” John asked.

 

“I hope not, I would worry about your safety.”

 

John frowned, that was not the first time Sigurson had made a comment like that about his sons. He seemed to think John would not be able to hold his own against them!

 

“I think I can survive two kids missing their Dad, thanks.”

 

Sigurson shot him a fond smile, “Of course, John, but my sons are not 'kids'.”

 

John rolled his eyes.

 

\--

 

Three days passed and nothing happened. Sirgurson continued to follow him around wherever he went. It was all good fun.

 

Right now, John was lying on his bed trying to read through Romeo and Juliet for English homework. Sigurson was lounging in his desk chair. He kept laughing, trying to think of a person who either of his sons would be willing to die for.

 

“Maybe someone like you, John, you are pretty interesting. Sherlock would love you.”

 

“If I ever meet him, and he might think I'm too weird.”

 

“Sherlock?” Sigurson asked, laughing, “Never.”

 

Suddenly, Sigurson stood up. John looked at him quizzically, “what?”

 

“Somethings happening, I feel.. something.”

 

“Okay. Do you see anything?” John looked around, but he saw no lights.

 

“Yes, the wall behind your bed is beginning to look brighter.”

 

“Maybe.. maybe they had to open the letter and read it before you could move on?”

 

“Perhaps.” Sigurson said, but his brow was furrowed, and he was looking at John rather intensely.

 

“Promise me, John. Promise me that if you ever meet Sherlock, you will give him a chance.”

 

“Okay, okay I promise.” John replied, because he doubted he would ever meet Sherlock.

 

“Thank you for everything John.” Sigurson smiled, “I think I have to leave you now.”

 

John nodded, “okay.”

 

Sigurson moved towards the light that John could now see glowing above his bed.

 

“And John?” he called back.

 

“Yea?”

 

“Do not listen to the students at your school. They have no idea how incredible you are.”

 

Then he was gone. John wiped the tears running down his face, telling himself that they were only there because he had been looking at the light for too long.

\--

 

John's life grew progressively better throughout his adolescence. By the time he was fifteen he knew how to juggle between his normal life and the ghosts who came to visit him. He joined rugby, he focused on school, and when he got home, he talked to the ghosts waiting for him in his bedroom. He never got much sleep, but John didn't mind. He liked to help. And this need to help only grew as he did, playing a large part in his decision to become a doctor.

  
The only problem was that he never truly became close with anyone because of his secret. No matter that he joined the rugby team, or the biology club, or how many parties he went to, there was always a barrier between the normal people and John. And although they didn't know what it was about him, every could sense it. That's why they call him a freak.

 

So John grew up far happier than he had been as a child, but just as lonely.

 

\--

 

John sighed as he heard the door to his bachelor flat slam shut. The girl who he had been seeing for the past few weeks had tried to start the 'it's not you, it's me' conversation after breakfast. John had heard it enough times, so he had just told her to get out. Apparently girls don't like it when you throw them out.

 

They both knew it wasn't her, anyway, it was John.

 

After cleaning up the dishes, John headed to the tiny bathroom in the flat for a shower.

 

The only place he could afford right now was a one room flat in a questionable neighborhood. After John had left high school, his parents gave him all the money they could afford for university. His parents had stopped worrying about him, and began to worry about their own failing marriage. They had divorced before John graduated, and neither of them really wanted to live with him again. They didn't say it, but John could tell.

 

So here John lived, on his own. The only money his parents could afford to give him already spent on a medical degree. He had tried to have flatmates, but hiding the ability to talk to ghosts had been hard enough in a house, let alone apartments. Besides, he did not really have many friends to begin with.

 

He and Harry never really got on, probably because John was jealous that Harry did not get the same family genes that John did. Harry seemed to think John was purposefully leaving her out of his life, but he wasn't. He was trying to spare her his drama. Harry lived in a house full of girls. The one time they saw each other every year was at Christmas.

 

The only person he had ever been close to was Melinda.

 

They often sent letters to each other, and as technology improved, the more they spoke. Melinda even spent a year after high school in the UK, and John was able to show her around.

 

But Melinda still lived in America, and had her own problems to deal with.

 

At the age of twenty five, with a family too broken up to speak to each other and no real friends to speak of, John was talking to the dead more than to the living. He felt adrift, almost finished med school but with no desire to stay.

 

John walked out of the bathroom toweling his hair dry. As he approached his dresser he saw movement in the corner of his eye. Movement no longer scared him.

 

He finished dressing before he looked to see who was sitting on his bed this time. A mugged woman who just wanted to say goodbye? An old man looking for one last adventure? A fucking kid? That's who had been sitting there the last few times. John didn't know how much more he could take.

 

As he turned to look he saw that it was none of the above. Instead, it was a man dressed in an army uniform. A soldier from Afghanistan complaining about how the lack of doctors had got him killed.

 

John smiled, he knew where life would take him next.

 

\--

 

John loved Afghanistan. He loved the sun and the sand. He loved the easy camaraderie between him and his fellow soldiers. He loved the heat and the action, how it made his blood pump through his veins, how it made him feel alive.

 

He loved saving lives, rather than saving ghosts. Although he did a lot of that too.

 

John spent more time writing letters to families of the dead than to his own, but he didn't mind, his own family didn't write him letters either.

 

And when the ghost of an Afghan soldier or citizen showed up on the odd occasion, John did his best. By the end of his first year John spoke the best Pashto in his unit.

 

Yes, John loved Afghanistan. He loved the war. He thrived in it. He wanted it to last forever. Which means, of course, that it didn't.

 

\--

 

The invalid home was John's own personal hell.

Yes, a war has a lot of death, but there are actually quiet a few soldiers who die with regret during combat. Those who die in an invalid home, that's all they've been thinking of.

 

From the moment John walked into the place there were already five ghosts wandering the building aimlessly. They all flocked to him.

 

Day after day John listened to the whispers of ghosts who had succumbed to suicide, how they had failed themselves and their families. How they just gave up now, because they would never have a normal life again.

 

The worst part was that they were all saying the exact same thing that John himself was already thinking.

 

John's run in with Mike was a coincidence, but it wasn't exactly a surprise. He avoided staying in the home as much as possible, he was bound to wander into someone eventually.

 

Sherlock Holmes, however, now he was a surprise. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are always welcome :)


	3. Forgotten (And Alone)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's experiences as he grows up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings (which could include spoilers, so if you do not need warnings do not read): mentions of suicide and overdose in this chapter.

Sherlock, to his brothers great dismay, has always wanted a best friend. When he first began to walk at 5 months, he followed Mycroft around where ever he would go. Mycroft tolerated this, and even avoided staircases at times.

 

When he first began to speak in full sentences at the age of 2, he told Mycroft everything. He asked Mycroft everything. Mycroft tolerated this as well. He answered all the questions he was able.

 

When Sherlock began to call Mycroft his best friend at the age of 3, well, Mycroft had to draw the line somewhere. Mycroft was ten years old after all, he was in school most of the day. Besides which, the term best friend was so.. childish. Obviously the only solution to this problem was to begin avoiding Sherlock, the child would realize quickly that Mycroft was just his brother. They did not need to spend quality time together.

 

Sherlock realized no such thing. Every day Mycroft arrived home from school, Sherlock was waiting for him by the front door.

 

Every night, Sherlock tried to climb into bed with him to read stories together.

 

Every weekend, Sherlock tried to follow him. No matter what he was doing!

 

So, Mycroft made the decision that he thought would be best for both of them. He decided that he would skip a year in school, and enrol a year early for boarding schools. Sherlock would not be able to follow him there, and Mycroft would finally be able to study in peace.

 

Mummy and Father agreed to this arrangement. Even though they barely even looked at the spreadsheets Mycroft had made.

 

\--

 

When Sherlock was three years and seven months old, his brother and best friend Mycroft moved to a boarding school. Sherlock was not allowed to go with him, despite all of his arguments to the contrary.

 

Sherlock made the decision that his parents were fools, and he would pack up his things and follow Mycroft on his own. So, the second night that Mycroft was off in the awful boarding school, Sherlock packed up two t-shirts, his anatomy book, his stuffed bee, and a pair of socks (incase of cold). He tried to pack in his pirate hat, but it did not fit into his backpack, and Sherlock did not want to get it wrinkled. Mycroft would have to pick it up for him later, for he was never going to return home. Not after his parents betrayed him.

 

His plan was simple. He would wait until his parents went to bed, then he would sneak out the front door and walk to the train station. From there, he would spend his allowance to buy a ticket to Eton boarding school. When he got to Eton he was sure he would only have to ask someone where to find Mycroft, and then he could live with him there! Mycroft was going to be so happy to see him.

 

\--

 

Sherlock checked the time, it was 10:30 pm. Or 22:30, in mission speak. His Mummy and Daddy had gone into their bedroom half an hour ago, and Sherlock was sure they would be asleep by now. To be cautious, Sherlock did not turn any lights on when he crept out of his bedroom with his backpack and his coat on. He snuck down the hall, and was extra careful on the staircase, because he knew the fifth and fourth stair squeaked.

 

Once downstairs, he made quick work on his shoes. His Daddy had taught him how to tie his own last week, and Sherlock only took 1 minute and 30 seconds to tie them both now. Mycroft had said he was impressed, and that was when it still took Sherlock 2 minutes and 10 seconds to tie them both! He was going to be so impressed when Sherlock showed him at the boarding school.

 

Shoes on, coat on, backpack on, Mummy and Daddy still asleep upstairs. Sherlock took one last look around, and then he crept towards the door. This was one of the pivotal moments in his plan, as he had not had time to research how good his parents hearing was. Very slowly, Sherlock unlatched the lock on the door. It clicked when it was unlocked, and then there was silence. He waited a beat but heard nothing from upstairs. Satisfied, Sherlock slowly began to turn the door knob- when suddenly a loud blaring ring began to go off. The home alarm! In his rush, Sherlock had completely forgotten about it!

 

Panicked, Sherlock swung the door open, and ran out of the house. Sherlock did not have to test their hearing to know that Mummy and Daddy would be able to hear the alarm!

 

He had made it down the street when he heard voices calling after him. Sherlock turned down the next street and dove into a bush, hoping that his parents would keep running past where he was and he could think of a new plan.

 

They did not keep running. His Daddy ran right up beside the street and then looked around. Sherlock had no idea what he saw, but Daddy only took one glance at the ground, and then he was staring directly at his hiding place. Not fair!

 

“Sherlock?” Daddy called.

 

Sherlock did not respond. Maybe if he did not answer, his Daddy would think he had made a mistake and keep moving down the street.

 

His Daddy did no such thing. In fact, he moved closer.

 

“Sherlock, buddy, come out of the bush.”

 

“No.” Sherlock replied. If he could not go see Mycroft, that did not mean he was going to live at home with these villains.

 

“You're going to get cold in there. Why don't you come out and tell what's going on? Over some tea and biscuits?”

 

Sherlock did like biscuits. And he had forgotten to pack any... but, “no. You betrayed me.”

 

“I betrayed you?” His father repeated in a confused voice. Like he didn't know what Sherlock was talking about.

 

“You know what you did. I hate you.”

 

“You hate me,” Daddy sighed, “Sherlock, is his about Mycroft?”

 

“Obviously.”

 

“Right, obviously. Sherlock, you can not be mad at all of us because he wanted to go to school. We have to support him.”

 

Sherlock blinked, he did not know what that meant and his eyes were starting to sting. He sniffed.

“Support him? You sent him away!”

 

He heard another sigh, and then some rustling. Sherlock had to move some branches away to see that Daddy was now sitting on the grass. He did not saying anything.

 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock demanded.

 

“Waiting.”

 

Sherlock waited, but there was no further explanation. “Waiting for what?”

 

“For you to come out of there, of course.”

 

“No.”

 

“No?”

 

“I'm never coming out. If I can't live with Mycroft, I don't want to live with anyone. I'll live off the land like a pirate.”

 

“Pirates live at sea, Sherlock.”

 

“Well I will get to a sea eventually!!”

 

“Right, sorry, of course.”

 

Silence again. Sherlock sat in the bush and waited. And waited. And waited some more. A car drove past, which was insane because it was probably like 2 am or something really late! Or 02:00 hours in mission talk. Maybe it was even later, Sherlock had forgotten to pack his watch as well.

 

“Daddy?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“What time is it?”

 

“Almost midnight.”

 

Sherlock peered out at him, “you're not wearing a watch, how do you know?”

 

“I just know.”

 

Silence again. Sherlock's bum was starting to feel damp through his pants, he had forgotten that it had rained earlier today. Sherlock moved so that he was sitting on his knees, but now that his trousers were wet he felt colder. He sat on his knees for a moment before he began to shiver, so he stood up and fumbled his way out of the bush.

 

Daddy was still sitting there watching him. Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself to keep warm.

 

“Cold?” his Daddy asked, moving his eyes up and down his body. They stopped on his backpack and on his knees.

 

“How do you know what time it is?”

 

Daddy smiled, “I can teach you, if you come home.”

 

Sherlock frowned, “I'm still mad at you, Mycroft is my best friend and you sent him away.”

 

“Sherlock, we did not send him away. Mycroft can come home whenever he likes, and he will be home for every single school break.”

 

Sherlock kicked at the ground, “if he can come home anytime he likes, why isn't he at home now?”

 

“Mycroft wanted to go to school, bud, it was his decision.”

 

No.. that was.. Sherlock could feel tears well up in his eyes and he looked down. But his Daddy had already seen them.

 

“Oh sweetheart, come here.” Strong arms picked him up. Sherlock wrapped his arms and legs around him, and buried his face in his neck.

 

Daddy rubbed his back. Sherlock's tears did not stop though.

 

“I thought he was my best friend.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Who am I going to play with now? And read books with? And be pirates with?”

 

Daddy did not reply, but he could feel him rocking a bit.

 

“Sherlock, do you want to know a secret?” Daddy whispered.

 

“What?”

 

“I was once on a pirate ship.”

 

Sherlock sniffed, “really?”

 

“Yep. And the captain wanted to make me walk the plank, but I managed to talk him out of it when I told him about the gold.”

 

Sherlock lifted his head, “what gold?”

 

“I haven't told you about the Holmes Gold?”

 

Sherlock shook his head.

 

“How about I tell you over a cup of tea at home.”

 

Sherlock nodded before resting his head on Daddy's shoulder. He could try running away later, after he found out about the Holmes Gold of course.

 

\--

 

Daddy was the best friend ever. He took Sherlock to parks, and even on a weekend trip to the ocean! They played pirates, even though Sherlock was 85% sure that Daddy had been an actual pirate before. It was the best.

 

A year later, after Sherlock started school, Daddy made sure to be home to pick him up every day. Sherlock still liked to play pirate, but now that he had started school there were many more things that he wanted to talk about. For example, why his class was not allowed a microscope!? And why, when he asked his teacher, she had said that it would be years before he would be able to get to use one?!

 

Daddy had agreed with him, and they now spent hours and hours looking at things that Sherlock had never been able to see before!

 

Sherlock became more interested in science as the years went on, and Daddy supported him all the way. Often on walks, they would squat down beside roadkill or fungus to examine it. Sherlock was also allowed to take it home with him as long as he followed the safety rules.

Sherlock had, despite his differences with his peers, a very happy childhood.

 

It was a shame it could not last.

 

\--

 

A month after Sherlock's ninth birthday, Sherlock was attacked.

 

He had been walking home from school, something he had convinced his parents he should be allowed to do by himself now that he was nine, when he saw a dead sparrow lying on the sidewalk. Sherlock looked around. There were no building close by, so the bird had not run into a window. Sherlock knelt down to examine the body. Feathers were in disarray, there was a bit of blood, but no sign that the bird had tried to be eaten. Sherlock stood up and glanced around again. Sure enough, there was a cat across the street happily licking its front paws. Sherlock smiled to himself. His father was right, his deduction skills were improving.

 

Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed him around his mouth, and an arm wrapped around his body. Startled, Sherlock tried to thrash around, but it made little difference. The man holding him lifted him up and carried him to the nearby ally. Nothing Sherlock did seemed to make a difference.

 

Sherlock thought quickly, what was the man going to do? Statistically, attacks in London were for money or sexual assault. Sherlock had no money on him, which was worrying, but he did look like a well off boy walking home alone. Obviously, he should wear something that made him blend in.

 

The man dropped him to the ground. Sherlock winced as he fell, hitting hard on his side. Sherlock decided that he would not be able to physically escape, he would have to mentally distract the man.

 

“What do you--” Sherlock started to ask, but was interrupted by a boot hitting his side.

 

That hurt. That really hurt.

 

The man did not stop, he just kept kicking. Sherlock curled into a ball, trying to protect himself.

 

Finally, the man stopped. Sherlock did not know why, and the man did not say. He left just as quickly as he had appeared, leaving Sherlock lying on the pavement behind him.

 

His Dad found him half an hour later on the side of a building. Sherlock had tried to walk home, but it takes an awfully long time when every step is agony.

 

Daddy took one look at him, before gingerly picking him up and taking him directly to hospital. The doctors said he had a broken rib, and there would be a lot of bruising. Sherlock thought it would be exciting to watch the bruises heal. Dad looked horribly pale at the news, though.

 

\--

 

The next morning his parents agreed he did not have to go to school. Sherlock was relieved, he did not want to leave the house.

 

That night when Dad came home from work, he had a surprise with him. It was an Irish Setter and she was beautiful. Dad gave him a long hug when Sherlock thanked him, he said that he did not need to be thanked. She was not a present, she was there to protect him when his Dad was not able to be around.

 

Sherlock laughed, and chased after his new puppy. Sure, he had just been attacked, but that was one odd incident that would probably never happen again. Besides, when was Dad never going to be around?

 

Sherlock named the puppy Redbeard after their favourite pirate story. Daddy smiled when he told him.

\--

 

Mummy found his father in his study a week later. He had swallowed a bottle of pills and had been dead for 3 hours.

 

No one would allow Sherlock to see the body.

 

\--

 

The only thing Sherlock cared about was Redbeard. Redbeard had to be fed and walked twice a day, and he had to insure that she always had clean water and at least two toys.

 

Redbeard had to be brushed at minimum once a week or her coat would get matted.

 

Redbeard could be trained a number of different tricks, thus far Sherlock had taught her sit, stand, and speak. Speak was used often when Mycroft was around.

 

Redbeard liked to sleep in Sherlock's bed, and that was just fine with Sherlock. Sherlock liked to have her in his bed too.

 

\--

 

Sherlock did not attend the funeral.

 

Sherlock did not talk to Mycroft.

 

Sherlock did not talk to Mummy.

 

Sherlock did not think about the man who had been his best friend and his whole world. He did not think about the man who had hurt him and lied to him.

 

Sherlock played with Redbeard. Everything was fine.

 

\--

 

Sherlock and Redbeard were heading outside when the post arrived. Sherlock accepted the envelopes, intending to throw them on the kitchen table and get back to playing. But something stopped him.

 

There was a large green envelope mixed in with the small, neat printed letters of apology. It had been addressed by a child. The name on the front said it was from Sigurson Holmes.

 

Sherlock tore it open.

 

_To my dear sons, Sherlock and Mycroft,_

 

_By now I am sure that you have found my body and attended my funeral. I apologize now for having put you through that, my dear boys, I have never wished to inflict such pain onto you. I want you to know that it was nothing that either of you, or your mother, did that made me take such a vile act. I killed myself so that you could be safe from the men who were threatening our family._

 

_I know that this is confusing, as I never shared any of my professional life with you two, but I have not always been a good man. I made many mistakes in my life, but I was not about to let these men harm you. That would have been the worst mistake of my life._

 

_I want you both to know how much I love you. I am so proud of the men that I know you both will become. I am sorry that I will miss it._

 

_Listen to your mother, she is a smart woman. Take care of each other my dear boys, I hope I will be able to watch over you from where I am going._

 

_With great love, your Father,_

_Sigurson Holmes._

 

_Ps, Sherlock, I hope Redbeard can be a comfort to you in this time. I take comfort in knowing that you have a friend with you._

 

_PPSS – This letter was written by a friend of mine who has the ability to see the dead. He so kindly wrote this out as I no longer have the ability to move objects. He also sent it in the post, please do not try to find him, he had no part in my death._

 

_PPPSSS – I am sorry for your loss, Anonymous._

 

 

Sherlock stared down at the childish scrawl of his fathers words.

 

What. The. Bloody. Hell.

 

Sherlock sniffed the paper and licked the corner. He took out his magnifying glass and carefully inspected every inch of the letter and the envelope.

 

From what he could tell, the letter had been written after his father's death, judging by the age of the ink. The writer was from a distance away based off the damage to the envelope. It could be a trick, but Sherlock did not think an adult could copy this childish chicken scratch with such regularity. Besides that, why would they? Sherlock could think of no motive.

 

Hope bloomed in Sherlock's chest. He clutched the letter to his chest and ran to Mycroft's room.

 

“Mycroft, Mycroft!” Sherlock shouted on his approach.

 

Mycroft opened his door before Sherlock reached it. His eyes looked a bit wild with worry, but Sherlock didn't care. He thrust the letter at him.

 

“Daddy didn't kill himself for no reason! He didn't betray us!”

 

Mycroft frowned in confusion, and quickly glanced over the letter in his hand.

 

“Sherlock, what is this?”

 

“It's a letter from Daddy!”

 

Mycroft sighed, “Sherlock, is this a joke? Our father is dead.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I know that, it was written by a child somewhere in England.”

 

Mycroft did not reply, he just re-read the letter.

 

“Sherlock. Gift giving, change of appearance, withdrawing affection. These are all signs of suicidal thoughts. Our father showed all of them in the week before his suicide. I know it's hard, but you need to accept these facts.”

 

Sherlock blinked, processing this. “Yes, but, he knew something was about to happen a week before he died. Ever since my attack he was acting strange. It was because he knew they would attack again. He was protecting us!”

 

“The only person he was thinking about, Sherlock, was himself.” Mycroft dropped the letter to the floor, and took a step back into his room, “stop playing these games, and grow up.”

 

Mycroft slammed the door in his face.

 

Sherlock stood there for a moment, feeling anger build up inside of him. Mycroft had not even tried to look at the evidence. Sherlock took a big breath to calm himself down. Then, he gently picked up the letter Mycroft had abandoned on the floor.

 

His Daddy had loved him enough to make such a great sacrifice. That was enough for Sherlock. Gently folding the letter back up, Sherlock went downstairs to collect the envelope. He was not about to lose either of them.

 

\--

 

Mycroft returned to boarding school soon after the 'incident' with the letter. Sherlock refused to talk to him, not that Mycroft had really tried. Mummy did not push. She said everyone grieved in their own way.

 

Sherlock decided not to attend boarding school. He did not want to be anywhere near Mycroft, and he had Redbeard to look after. Besides, he could not leave Mummy alone at a time like this anyway. He was not heartless like Mycroft.

 

Life went on, just differently then it had before.

 

When Sherlock turned 12, his Mummy asked him again if he wanted to attend boarding school. Mycroft was in university at this point, and Redbeard would still be there during holidays. But Sherlock still said no. He did not want to be anything like his brother. So he began Secondary School close to his home. It was here that he met Victor Trevor.

 

Victor was the first person who Sherlock called his best friend who was not related to him. They got along well enough, and Victor didn't call him annoying, or weird, or a freak.

 

Victor was his first real friend.

His first crush.

His first kiss.

His first high.

 

At 17 it didn't seem like a big deal to get high and fuck. Victor was doing it. Everyone else was fornicating someway or another.

 

Afterwards Sherlock liked to come home and run his fingers through Redbeard's fur. It felt so soft.

 

At 18 it was still fine to be high for half the day. Victor began to sell his own drugs. He would take Sherlock out to expensive restaurants, and Sherlock would blow him in the bathroom stalls.

Sherlock thought he might be in love.

 

At 19 they still had the rest of their lives to figure out what they wanted to do. Sure, some people were going to university. Mycroft had already gotten a promotion at his stupid government job, but who cares about that? School and work were boring. Victor made Sherlock feel things he had never even dreamed on. Everything was perfect.. until it wasn't.

 

\--

 

Sherlock tried to take Redbeard for a walk, but he was on a come down. He had just sat down for a second to catch his breath when she ran across the street. He hadn't expected that, she was old now, wasn't she? Weren't old dogs supposed to stay put? Where had the car even come from?

 

Sherlock did not know what to do with himself. The vet said she had died on the way to the clinic. There was nothing anyone could have done. Which was a lie, Sherlock could have stopped her from going onto the road at all.

 

Mummy tried to take him home, but Sherlock couldn't go there. He couldn't face where his father died. Where his dog had died.

 

When Victor let him in he was already high. Sherlock didn't mind, he was used to it.

He didn't tell Victor what had happened but Victor knew something was wrong. He made them a special mix of cocain and heroin. Something neither of them had tried before.

 

Sherlock sighed in relief as the substance was pushed into his veins.

 

\--

 

The next time Sherlock opened his eyes he was in hospital.

Sherlock had survived the overdose. Victor had not.

 

\--

 

Rehab was the worst experience of Sherlock's life. His mind would not shut up. He could not stand to be around people, but could also not stand to be alone.

 

At night he felt like he was being watched, but he had a room to himself. There was no one through the windows either. Sherlock had a feeling it was Victor, haunting him from beyond the grave.

 

\--

 

It took a few years for Sherlock to find his career, but when he found it he knew. So did Detective Lestrade.

 

Mycroft was disappointed that Sherlock had not chosen a career in government, but Mummy was happy for him.

 

He relapsed twice. Both times Lestrade thought his 'tough love' got Sherlock sober again, but it wasn't. It was the feeling of Victor watching him that always made Sherlock stop.

 

Lestrade tried to talk to him about it, but Sherlock had outgrown the childish idea of friends.

 

\--

 

By his mid-thirties Sherlock was well on his way in his chosen career as a consulting detective. He had connections with the police and other people of importance in London. He had a brother who he could use for the work. His Mummy was happy in the countryside. Yes, he would need to find a flatmate to afford living with Mrs. Hudson, but flatmates can easily be ignored.

 

He had everything he needed.

 

Or so he had thought.

 

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading everyone! I hope you are enjoying the story thus far.   
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated :) 
> 
> Unfortunately I am not sure if I will be able to update next Sunday, life has gotten a bit unexpectedly busy. But I will for sure try to update the Sunday after next!


	4. Takes One to Know One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being sent home from Afghanistan, John meets Sherlock. John is finally happy, as long as he ignores the pamphlets for schizophrenia that have been placed around the flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody! 
> 
> Sorry there has been no update in a while! I will try to update every Sunday again :) Or at least more often. 
> 
> Life has been busy lately, but things should be calming down soon! Do not fear, the fic will not be abandoned! 
> 
> No warnings for this chapter. Hope you enjoy!  
> Kudos and comments are always welcome :)

As soon as he saw him he knew who he was, he looked remarkably like his father, Sigurson. Sherlock obviously had no idea who he was though, which made sense. John's dead father had not been talking to him.

Yet Sherlock seemed to still know far more about him than he knew about Sherlock. On their first cab ride together John half expected him to deduce that he had the power to talk to ghosts, because of the state of his socks or something. He didn't, obviously, no one believed that could actually happen, but John was amazed no less.

Although Sherlock did get a few things wrong. He was not recently divorced, nor was his sister trying to connect with him. His phone was a gift from Melinda, the only person he talked to on a regular basis.

It was strange, though, John felt like he was meeting Sherlock again after a long time. Sherlock made him feel at peace with his life in a way he hasn't felt in ages. Which was really very odd for someone he had only met the day before.

He was furious, of course, when the git decided to run off on his own to prove his genius. The bastard. But John had his own special abilities.

The woman in pink was following her mobile around shouting at the cabbie that someone would find him, John noticed who the murderer was before even Sherlock did.

He couldn't tell anyone about it, because no one would believe him, but her help made it pretty easy to follow after them.

And killing for Sherlock? John didn't even blink. He had finally found someone who accepted his “weird vibe” like hell he was going to let the idiot get away from him just yet.

And John waited and waited in dread, but the look never came. John hated that look. The look everyone he meets gives him, the look that says, 'I am feeling majorly creeped out by you but I don't know why and I'm too polite to mention it.' But Sherlock didn't seem to notice. Or perhaps he didn't care.

\--

 

Living with Sherlock was surprisingly comfortable. Many of the ghosts he encountered were the victims of the cases, and John only had to tell them not to worry, Sherlock would solve it, and then they would generally leave him alone.

Of course, that didn't happen all the time.

Depending on how long it took Sherlock to solve it. The ghosts would sometimes grow angry or upset.  
At that point John would have to pretend that there wasn't a third person screaming or crying in the room while Sherlock was trying to bounce ideas off of John.

Sometimes Sherlock told him he should get his hearing checked. Usually he just thought John was too slow to keep up with his genius. John didn't care. As long as he didn't notice his secret, it was all fine.

It was when Sherlock didn't have a case that things became uncomfortable for John. He suddenly had all of Sherlocks undivided attention, and a bunch of ghosts who he could not so easily get rid of.

His attempt to work at a clinic with Sarah failed terribly. Just like their relationship.

It wasn't very surprising, John had too big of a secret, relationships never worked out for him.  
And with the job, well, chasing after Sherlock wasn't very helpful for any kind of commitment. And with Sherlock's clients giving them money to solve their cases, why would he bother with a job?

So without a job outside of Sherlock, and usually without a relationship, and without a life outside of Sherlock, John was pretty screwed for privacy.

He was forced to spend a large amount of his time in his room, or on 'long walks' just to deal with the surge of ghosts who showed up when they weren't on a case. It was quiet nice of them to wait until he was free, really.

Unfortunately John knew this couldn't last forever, the inevitable would eventually happen.  
Sherlock was too smart, he'd already caught John talking to ghosts on several occasions and John had always found some lame excuse to throw him off, there was no way he would believe him forever; all he could do now was wait for the other shoe to drop.

\--

The computer was making weird gurgling noises when John walked into his room. John sighed, sitting down at his desk and clicking buttons until it stopped. When the noises did finally end, Melinda's face popped up.

“There you are!”

“What do you mean, there I am? I thought we agreed we would only have planned skype chats from now on. I don't know when Sherlock will be home.” Thinking about it, John peered out of his door and down the stairs just in case the man was snooping already. One could never know with Sherlock.

“Oh calm down, what's the worst thing that could happen?”

“You know who could find out about you know what.”

“So what? Jim knows.”

John glared at her. Or he tried to, he was never sure where to look during skype calls.

“That's a bit different, Melinda, Jim is your boyfriend.”

“And how is that different?” She asked with a smirk.

John chose to ignore that question.

“How is Jim doing anyway? His brother still around?”

Melinda made a face, “he's doing okay. His brother has not been around for a while. I think he misses him.. even though he didn't even know he was still there, he could feel him, you know?”

John nodded sympathetically.

Melinda sighed, “he has been avoiding me lately too. I hope he doesn't blame me for it, but I was the one to help his brother move on.”

“They are both better off now, it's not healthy to stay attached. We have both seen what happens if it lasts too long.”

Melinda nodded, “I know. It's just hard sometimes, you know? Kind of like how its hard to trust someone with a secret that you have kept your whole life. And you want to tell them, but you think they will think less of you if you do for some odd reason. You know what I mean, I'm sure.”

John laughed, “it's more complicated than that, and you know it!”  
“How is it more complicated? Sherlock seems pretty open minded. He's not going to call you crazy.”

“Yea, but..” John rubbed his hand over his face, “we both know how bad it can get after. It's not something you can take back.”

Melinda nodded, and they shared a moment of understanding silence. Until Melinda's eyes moved off to beside John, “well hello. Nice to finally meet you!”

John almost fell out of his chair turning around to see Sherlock. He felt his ears redden in embarrassment, but Sherlock was not watching him, he was looking at Melinda.

“Hello.”

“You must be Sherlock! I'm Melinda.”

“Yes. The cousin.”

Melinda nodded, “yes, that's me!”

Sherlock's eyes started to move over the screen, “interesting.”

“Nope.” John slammed the lid of his laptop down, cutting off Melinda's feed.

Sherlock moved his eyes towards him, “was that not rude?”

John shrugged, “she's my cousin, I can be rude to her.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “I was unaware of that social rule.”

“Clearly you don't have cousins... how long have you been home?”

“I was home before you were.”

John felt the beginning of panic creep into his spine, “oh. How long were you snooping by my door?”

“Not long.” Sherlock was already walking out of his room, “Lestrade texted about a case. Coming?”

John looked between Sherlock and his laptop. How much had Sherlock heard? He couldn't ask, that would just make it obvious John cared Sherlock had heard.

With one last tap on his desk John got up and jogged down the stairs after Sherlock, no point in worrying about it.

Sherlock probably had not even heard anything.

\--

It was that night that the first pamphlet about schizophrenia showed up on the kitchen counter. John glanced at it while he was making tea with a frown. He was pretty sure the suspect for the case had no mental health issues.. he shrugged and continued making tea. Sherlock knew what he was doing.

 

The next day he opened his laptop to discover articles on PTSD open and scrolled halfway through. The case had closed in the early hours of the morning, so it wasn't about that. John considered for a moment that it might be about him, but he didn't really have PTSD. Not since meeting Sherlock at least. John sighed and closed all the tabs. Sherlock should really learn how to use his own damn laptop.

 

A few days later John opened his bedroom door to find a piece of paper lying on the floor. Slightly crumpled, as if someone had attempted to push it under his door, but was unable to. John frowned and picked it up. It was an article called, “Hallucinations: Types, Causes, and Diagnosis” printed off of some medical website. John's frown deepened. What was Sherlock up to? He went down the stairs holding the paper, intending to ask Sherlock about it. But when he got to the living area he found that Sherlock was not at home. John put the paper aside, planning to ask later.  
He forgot to ask later.

 

The realization hit when John opened his wallet to pay for some groceries and found a card slipped inside that he had not put there. Once groceries were paid, and all his bags were safely to the side, John fished it out. It was the name and number of a therapist. John blinked in confusion. Why would Sherlock, because it was obviously Sherlock, put a therapists card into his wallet?

John thought back to all the odd things that had happened in the past week.

John thought back to when all of these odd things had started.

John thought back to what Sherlock might have heard in his conversation with Melinda.

Well fuck.

\--

The pamphlets and articles continued to pop up around the flat, John pretended that he did not know why they were there. Sherlock did not say anything to him in person, but he would often stare at John for long periods at a time, and John knew it was bound to happen eventually.

The other shoe was going to drop. And soon.

\--

The other shoe did, in fact, drop.

About two weeks after John began to find pamphlets around their flat, Sherlock was working on a tiring case of a man who was found in a fourth floor apartment with his throat slit.

All windows and doors were locked from the inside, the owners of the apartment had been in Greece at the time and had no idea who this man was, and neither did anyone else. His ID was apparently fake, and his fingerprints and face didn't match any of their databases. Sherlock has been in his mind palace for the past three hours.

John was running on seven hours of sleep for the past seventy two hours. He was on his fifth cup of coffee of the night. John has been dutifully looking through the news for these three hours looking for similar murders because Sherlock was sure this was a serial killer, he just had no real evidence.

John couldn't help but believe him because for the past twenty four of the seventy hours of nonsleep he had had three very angry French men yelling at him.

In French.

From their neck wounds and blood covering the front of all their shirts, John could only assume that they were three victims of the killer.

But sadly, John could not understand French.  
Nor could he speak it.

His usual platitudes to the ghost victims failed horribly, along with every other plan he had thought of. He had resigned himself to just sit there and ignore their French yells, but that just made them more agitated.

As the men grew louder in their yelling and more frantic in their waving, the table and chairs in the kitchen began to shake. He sighed and pinched between his eyes, feeling his headache for the day bloom into a full on migraine.

“John, stop whatever it is you're doing over there. It's highly distracting,” Sherlock called from his lounging spot on the couch.

“Yea, alright,” John snapped. Although whether he was snapping on the ghosts or at Sherlock he wasn't sure. Probably mostly Sherlock, he thought, I could show him a thing or too about what classified as distracting.

John attempted to still the shaking table when one of the ghosts pulled Johns chair a foot away from the table.

“Fuck.”

“What?” Sherlock asked, John felt like hitting himself, that was a rookie mistake.

“Nothing, it's fine,” John called back, hoping Sherlock would go back to ignoring him.

Another ghost decided to grab the newspapers from the table and throw it into the air angrily, “stop!” John tried to whisper.

“Stop what?” Sherlock's voice was closer, he had left his position on the couch. Apparently John had failed at the whispering.

John panicked, jumping to his feet and trying to stop the table from shaking before Sherlock made it into the kitchen.

This just made the French men more angry, which lead to more flying newspaper. This time, landing on top of Sherlocks face as he appeared in the entryway.

“Mature, John, if you didn't want to help you could have just said. No need for theatrics,” Sherlock pulled the paper from his head and the annoyance switched immediately to confusion – and possibly concern, although that was a rare emotion for Sherlock. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing,” John attempted to smile but knew he failed judging by the look on Sherlocks face. His arms began to shake with the tables movement.

Of course, Sherlock noticed, “John, what's wrong? You're shaking.”

“No, no. Well, yes. Actually, you're right. I don't want to do this anymore, maybe I'll go for a walk,” John tried to move around to the door without taking his hands off of the shaking table with little success. Sherlock had already made it to him anyway.

“It's 3 am. Perhaps you should go to bed,” John could barely hear him over the shouting, but he noticed when Sherlock reached out to towards Johns shoulder, obviously about to touch him, John couldn't allow that. John couldn't allow Sherlock to know that it wasn't him that was shaking. He took three steps away from Sherlock, almost tripping over a chair which had been so helpfully pushed over by one of the ghosts.

“No, no! I can't go until these stop shaking,” John was quickly becoming hysterical, his lifelong secret was crumbling before his very eyes and he could think of nothing that he could do about it. Being the proper British soldier that he was he attempted to barter, “Just stop shaking and we can solve this case, okay?! Just stop, just stop this. Ci vous play?oui? Non..shaking?”

Sherlock was looking at him like he'd lost his mind, “John, why are you yelling at the furniture in butchered French?”

“Because I don't speak French!” John yelled and bashed his fist down on the table at the same time.

By some crazy miracle that worked. The table stopped shaking, the men all stopped yelling. John let out a sigh, releasing tension that he'd had building for the past twenty four hours.

He watched as the men retreated to the other side of the flat as though afraid of him, John couldn't help it as he giggled a bit, “I can't believe that worked.”

“John, I need you to stay calm and focus on my voice. Can you do that for me?” Sherlock was still standing where he had been before, but his posture was different. He had his hands up but his back straight, as if to show John that he wouldn't hurt him at the same time that he would not allow John to get past him.

Buggering fuck, John had completely forgot that Sherlock was even there.. this one would be a hard one to get out of.

“John?” Sherlock repeated louder.  
“What? Yes. I'm fine Sherlock, sorry about.. that,” he gestured feebly at the table.

“It's alright, John. It's going to be alright,” Sherlock took a tentative step towards him.

“It is alright. Again, I'm sorry. I just need to get some sleep,” John attempted to flee but Sherlock stepped into his path.

“This isn't the first time I've found you talking with no one there.” Shit. He did not want to talk about this now.

“So I talk to myself a bit, piss off.”

“I have heard you talking to yourself before, this is different.” John tried to move past Sherlock again, but again Sherlock stepped into his path. “John, can you tell me how many people you see in the room right now?”

Oh, great. He really wanted to have this conversation now. “I'm not crazy, Sherlock, I'm just tired,” John tried not to sound too exasperated at his friends concern.

“I never said you were. Now, answer the question please.” It was the please that did it. Sherlock was never that polite. Well, that and the fact that he was obviously not going to leave him alone until he proved his sanity.

“Two. You and me.”

Sherlock gave him a steady look, “how many people in the flat, then?”

John fought against rolling his eyes, “still just the two of us. Or does Mrs. Hudson count in that?”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him,“ _If I speak in French, will I get a different answer?”_

John heard whispers coming from the other room, and felt the blood drain from his face, “what are you doing?”

“If it's only the two of us here, what does it matter what I'm doing? _Or is there a problem?_ ”

John involuntarily looked toward the men who were now inching back towards the kitchen, “no, Sherlock, stop.”

“Who are you seeing, John?” Sherlock placed a hand on top of Johns shoulder, causing him to jump. Sherlock tightened his grip, “I'm just trying to help. You can trust me, I can see how this is wearing you down.”

“What? What do you-”

“Please, it was obvious that you've been hiding something from me since the day we met. Something you were both hoping and dreading for me to deduce. This is it, isn't it?”

John remained silent, he didn't know how to do this. He'd never talked to anyone about it but Melinda.

“John, do you trust me?”

“Yes,” John could barely whisper.

“Then tell me.”

John licked his lips. Even if he told Sherlock, the odds were that he wouldn't believe him, and John would end up being sanctioned or something. Sherlock was too logical to believe something like this. Maybe if he just kept quiet Sherlock would drop the issue.

“There's nothing to be afraid of, I've already gathered that your family has a history of mental instability.”

“What?! No it- I'm not mentally unstable!” Great job with following the plan John.

“No?” Sherlock smirked, “seeing things and hearing voices is completely normal, then? In your own medical opinion.”

“I never said I as normal, did I?”

“No, I don't suppose you did. Alright let's assume, for the moment, that you are perfectly sane. What, then, do you see on an almost daily basis? Don't look at me like that, of course I've noticed. You're eyes follow things that are not there, your head follows non-existent sounds, you move around objects in empty space-”

“Alright! I get it! No one can hide anything from you, bravo.”

“I am not trying to show off, I am trying to inform you that there is no use hiding from me.”

“I guess not.. but, Sherlock, look, even if I tell you, you're not going to believe me.”

“I will believe the truth, John. Trust me.”

“Okay, well, uh, right now they're the victims of our latest case.”

“The victims?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking doubtful.

“Yes.”John closed his eyes. He knew there was no way Sherlock would believe this.

“There's more than one?”

“Yea, there's three right now. They all have the same slit throat.”

“Fascinating.” Sherlock was looking at him like a new puppy. John liked it better when he was looking at him liked psych patient, “do you always see the victims of our cases? What about before, the victims in Afghanistan? Is that were this started?”

“No, I've always been able to see.. hang on, do you believe me?” It was now John's turn to look at his flatmate like he was crazy. Finally, things were back to normal.

“I haven't decided yet. Can you ask them where their bodies are? Who killed them?”

“No, they only know up to when they died, they can't follow their bodies. And right now, they only speak French, so I have no idea.”

“French? French! Of course! How did I not see this before!”

“uh, right? Of course what?”

“Oh do follow, John, French!” John continued to look at him blankly, “oh, nevermind, ask them if they were from Paris or Argentina. What kind of knife was used? Is it the same for all three?”

“I can't speak French-”

“Oh for, I'll do it, you translate,” Sherlock turned toward the sitting room, “ _Where are you all from? What were you killed with?_ ”

He turned back to John expectantly.

“Um okay,” John also turned toward the men, who were all started yelling at him again, “uh, right, Paris, Paris and Argentina.”

“Excellent, and the knife?”

“Um, they all say machete.”

“Brilliant! John, you're fantastic!” Sherlock grabbed John's head between his hands, and kissed him right on the lips. He then pulled away, beamed at him, and then turned and ran to their coats. He threw his on and tossed John his before running down the stairs.

John just stood their dumbfounded, blinking. What had just happened? That was not the reaction he had been expecting.

“Come along, John!” he heard being yelled up the stairs, “the game is on!”

Right. Well... alright then. John followed Sherlock down the stairs, and out the door.

Later he found out that the victims were trying to escape a French mob, and were now being tracked down and killed in England. Sherlock was ecstatic.

\--

The next day Sherlock was acting odd... well, more odd than usual.

He kept looking at John like he wanted to say something and then turning away at the last moment. The first few times John asked him if there was something wrong but Sherlock just waved him off and went back to whatever he had been doing before.  
John was used to weird Sherlockian behaviour, so it was fine at first.

He ignored Sherlock as he ate his toast, as he read the newspaper, as he worked on his blog, as he made dinner and forced Sherlock to eat some. He could ignore the odd glance, and the huff of annoyance that Sherlock would let out whenever he looked away. What he found difficult to ignore, however, was Sherlock blatantly staring at him as he sat with his night cuppa trying to watch some TV movie.

The first five minutes John was just waiting for him to turn away, but he didn't. John waited half the bloody movie for Sherlock to either say something, or turn away, and he missed the entire plot because of it.

Finally, Sherlock took a deep breath and said, “John. I need to speak with you about something.”

John almost rolled his eyes, “really? Hadn't noticed.”

“What?” Sherlock asked, eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

John sighed, “nothing. What's up, Sherlock?”

Sherlock went back to staring at him for a while longer, John figured he would save him the effort,  
“this is about seeing ghosts thing. Isn't it?”

Some of the tension seemed to leave Sherlock's shoulders, “Yes. Yes it is. John, I want you to feel like you are in a safe environment when talking to me about these.. things,” he waved his hand around a bit in a nonsensical gesture.

John smirked, “get that from a website?”

“Yes, actually,” Sherlock seemed to deflate a bit at that. John actually felt bad until Sherlock kept talking, “I needed a better way to voice what I am about to say,” Sherlock took another deep breath, “John, I am grateful that you felt you could tell me your secret. But, mental illness is a serious issue and I believe we should look for outside-”

John held up his hand, “stop.”

Sherlock floundered for a second, before continuing his preplanned speech, “I realize that you don't trust those with the medical ability to help you, given your last therapist I don't blame you, but-”

“I am not crazy, Sherlock,” John interrupted again, glaring at his flatmate.

“No no, mental illness-”

“I am not mentally ill!” John sat forward and put his tea cup on the coffee table, turning to face Sherlock head on, “what about the case yesterday? Was that not proof enough?”

Sherlock looked at him through sad eyes, “mental illness, in this case some form of psychosis or schizophrenia, can,” Sherlock paused, looking like he was trying to choose his words very carefully,” reveal, itself in many different ways. In your case, it shows you things that you have seen before, a coping mechanism of sorts for all of the deaths you have seen in your life.”  
John stared at him incredulously, “a coping mechanism? Really? Alright, how do you explain how I knew about the French? The murder weapons?”

“Your eyes and other senses captured information, things that your mind didn't fully comprehend at the time, and later revealed to you through your hallucinations,” Sherlock recited with a practiced calm voice.

John wanted to punch him.

“So, what, you think I'm some sort of genius now? You didn't even know about the French thing, what could I have seen!” John's voice was steadily growing louder.

Sherlock's voice was annoyingly steady, “I am not sure John, but there is a logical explanation for what you are seeing. You want proof? When did these hallucinations begin? Early twenties? Late teens? That's the average age of psychosis to appear.”

“No, actually. They've always been there!”

Sherlock draws back, “what do you mean, always?”

“I mean, for as long as I can remember I've been able to see ghosts,” the two of them stare at each other until Sherlock leans further back and folds his hands in his lap.

“You know what? I don't need this.” John made a move to stand.

“How did you know they were ghosts?” Sherlock asks, still leaning comfortably against the coach.

John looks at Sherlock for a moment searching for scrutiny but Sherlock's face was a blank slate. John sighed in defeat. Leaning forward onto his knees and looking down at the floor he replied, “well, I didn't. I was terrified for most of my early childhood.. I figured it out at around the age of six when I noticed the strangers that I saw in our house were similar to the ones that Dad watched on the news. It still took me years until I tried to talk to one.” John left out the fact that Melinda had been the one to help him with that, she had her own secrets that he would not give away.

“Are they always strangers? Never people you know?” John couldn't see him, but Sherlock's voice sounded similar to the one he put on for clients during their cases. John wasn't sure if this was reassuring or not.

“In Afghanistan there were a few of my comrades, but generally they're strangers, yea,” John replied staring resolutely at the floor.

“Why do they come to you?”

John didn't answer, he just stared at the floor. He wonders why Sherlock is doing this if he doesn't believe him. He wonders when was the last time they hoovered their floor.

“John?” More silence, “you don't have to answer my questions if you don't want to, but I am only trying to understand.”

John lets out a bitter laugh, “trying to understand what, exactly? What to diagnose me with? You're never going to believe me when I tell you that I do not have schizophrenia!”

“No, I don't believe you do.” John finally looks up from the floor to Sherlock. Sherlock hasn't moved but his eyes are focused on John's face, “other than the visual and auditory hallucinations you have no other symptoms for mental illness that could not be explained with your PTSD. Nor are there many mental illnesses that surface at such an early age without the person being diagnosed, your clever, John, but I don't think you could hide mental instability for your entire life. No, I don't believe you have a mental illness. But if I believe that you are seeing ghosts? I need more evidence for that.”

Sherlock's eyes hold Johns during his speech, he leans forward to continue the contact when John tries to look away after he's finished.

“What evidence do you want?” John asks quietly, not really believing that this was actually happening.

“I need to see this happen first hand. Then I can gather more information.” Sherlock made it sound like a science experiment. He supposed it sort of was.

“Alright.”

“Next case, you will use the victim to help me solve it.”

“Sherlock, it doesn't work that way. They don't always stay.”

Sherlock waved his hand, “fine. Next, 'ghost' you see, tell me.”

“Alright.” John agreed.

Sherlock nodded. He then made his way to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

That was actually more promising than he had thought it would be.

\--


	5. In Case You Don't Believe Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John uses his ability to talk to ghosts to help Sherlock on a case. Sherlock finally believes that John can see ghosts.

“Anything now?” 

John sighed, “no. And for the last time, I will tell you if I see anything.” 

Sherlock grumbled and wrapped his dressing gown more tightly around his body. They had been sitting in the living room for the past three hours waiting for a ghost to show up. Despite John explaining that ghosts do not come when beckoned, Sherlock still seemed to be blaming John for his boredom. 

“Look, why don't you turn the telly on? Or we could go for a walk?”   
“No. I need to see the precise moment it arrives.” 

“Why?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes but did not answer. Fine, whatever. 

They sat in silence again. John flipped through the pages of the newspaper for the third time, but there was nothing. The obituaries all looked like cheerful people, and there were no murders last night. This may be a long few days. 

John set the paper down in favour of studying Sherlock, who was studying the room around him. He really did look remarkably like his father. Although now that he knew him better, Sherlock had many distinct features of his own. His lips were much more full, and his hair was a thing of beauty. 

John rubbed a hand over his mouth. How were you supposed to tell your friend you had met their father? Their dead father? He did not even know if the brothers had received his letter, let alone believed it. 

Then again, if Sherlock wanted proof, it would be a good thing to start with... 

“Sherlock-” John was cut off by a loud noise coming from upstairs. 

Sherlock was looking at him. 

“Do you hear that?” 

“No.” 

“Vanessa!” Calls a voice from upstairs. 

John glances at the stairs, and then turns to Sherlock, who is already getting to his feet. 

“Sherlock, wait,” but it's too late. Sherlock is already taking the steps two at a time. 

By the time John makes it upstairs, an old woman is standing in front of Sherlock, asking him where she was. Sherlock is looking around the room, but whether he sees anything or not John is not sure. 

John takes a steadying breath, here goes a life of secrets down the drain. 

“Excuse me, ma'am?” 

The woman shouting at Sherlock turns towards him. Now that he has a better look at her he can see that it is not anger driving her shouts, but fear. 

“It's alright, you're in a safe place. Can you tell me your name?” 

“Susan. Where am I? Who are you?” 

John walked around Sherlock to sit on his bed, patting the seat beside him in invitation. 

“My name is John, and this is my friend Sherlock,” John made a motion towards Sherlock, but did not look away from the woman, “you're in our flat. Do you know what happened to you?” 

Susan blinked a few times, and scrunched up her eyes in thought. “I.. I was at lunch with my daughter. I ordered the soup special, but they gave me the wrong one. I'm allergic to shell fish you see, and I started to have a reaction. My gosh, I thought I was going to die.” She looked at John with a smile, as if that was a silly thing to think. 

John gave her a sympathetic smile in return, “I am sorry to have to tell you this Susan, but, you did not recover from the attack.” 

“What do you mean? I'm sitting right here, talking to you!” 

John nodded, “yes, but I can talk to the dead. My friend here can't even see you.” 

They both turned towards Sherlock, who was trying to see who John was talking to but was a few inches in the wrong direction. 

“You can't see me?” Susan asked Sherlock, which received no reply. 

“I know this is a shock. Is there anything you need? Someone you would like me to talk to?” 

She stared at him blankly. 

“What about your daughter? Do you want me to check in on her? See if she is alright?” 

Susan slowly shook her head, “no, dear. She was with her husband. She'll be fine. All my kids are strong.” 

“Alright.” John said, and then waited. 

They sat in silence for a few moments as Susan processed her death. Sherlock was not watching John intently, having given up on staring at a blank space. 

“Where will I go now?” 

“The other side.” 

“Is it.. nice?” 

“I can't tell you for sure, but from what I have seen it's beautiful. You'll find peace there.” 

“Will my husband be there?” 

“I think so. I can not make you any promises though.” 

Susan nodded in understanding.   
A light appeared beside the bed, Susan and John both looked at it for a minute. 

“That's for me I suppose.” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, alright then.” 

Susan stood up and walked into the light with no hesitation. Then she was gone with the light. 

John turned towards Sherlock. 

“Ask her what it feels like. Is she in pain?” 

John shook his head, “she's gone Sherlock.” 

“Gone?” Sherlock frowned in outrage, “It's barely been ten minutes! I thought these things were meant to take longer!” 

“It depends on the person, and how they died.” 

“Well?” 

“Well what?” 

“How did she die? I need facts, John! There is no evidence here for me to learn from!” 

John rolled his eyes, “she was a woman around her mid-70's. She was dressed in beige trousers and a floral shirt. She died of anaphylactic shock caused by shell fish. Her daughter and son-in-law were there, but apparently she did not want to talk to them. I think she just needed to get over the shock of being dead.” 

Sherlock glared at him, “that is all such common information, you could have made the whole thing up. What about the details? What restaurant was it? What was her daughters name? Was the death an accident?” 

“Uh, I don't.. know. I didn't ask.” 

Sherlock waved his hands in exasperation. 

“Well this was a waste of my time then.” 

Sherlock stormed out of the room and down the stairs. Slamming his bedroom door shut. 

John was left wondering what Sherlock had seen in those ten minutes John was talking with Susan. Not enough to make him believe John. 

\--

John picked up Chinese on his way back from a walk. After Sherlock had not emerged from his room, John figured that meant the experiment was over and left. 

He was mildly disappointed to find Sherlock was not at home when he got back. John shrugged, assuming the man had left to let off some steam. He did not know why the man had thought he would be able to sit around the flat all day doing nothing but watching John talk to air. 

John ate his food, watched some telly, and then headed upstairs for bed. He did not hear anything from Sherlock this whole time, and was beginning to worry as he shut his light off. He lied awake for a while waiting for Sherlock to return, but he never did. John decided that if he was still missing in the morning, he was could Lestrade. Maybe Sherlock had found a case and had forgotten to tell John about it.. 

\-- 

When John came down stairs in the morning he was surprised to see Sherlock sitting at the table surrounded by all of their devices. John was particularly surprised to find his phone alongside the rest, as he had placed it on the nightstand beside him when he went to bed last night. 

Sherlock was watching him behind the screen of John's laptop, his hands tucked under his chin in a thinking pose. His posture said case, but John was not sure what he was working on. 

“Can I eat here? Are you working on a case?” John asked. He did not need to be yelled at for disturbing the work, not this early in the morning. 

“Can you describe the woman to me, John?” 

John thought about that for a second but no, no he had no idea what Sherlock was talking about. “What woman?” 

“The woman. The dead woman.” 

“Oh, Susan.” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “so you did know a name. You failed to mention that last night.” 

“Well I had assumed you were listening when I was talking to her.” 

“No, I was focusing on other things.. can you describe her?” 

“I already did. Mid-seventies, beige trousers, flowery shirt.” 

Sherlock just sat there, clearly waiting for more. 

“Um, curly short hair. Mole on one of her cheeks. She wore gold rimmed glasses. I don't know, she just looked like a nice old lady.” 

Sherlock turned the laptop around, “was this her?” 

The picture was recent, and clearly the woman that John had spoken to yesterday. 

“Yep.” John's eyes skimmed past the picture to see that it was from a news article for.. “murder?” 

“Yes.” 

“But it was an accident.” 

“No. The son-in-law had switched her soup with another customers when no one was looking. It was all caught on tape. Apparently he was in debt, and needed the inheritance early.” 

“Oh.” John frowned in thought. Susan had been sure it was an accident.. 

“You're upset.” 

“Yeah. I should have known she wasn't just sent here because of shock, there is usually more to it than that..” 

John continued to read the article, until he got to a name that made him look up again. “You looked into this?” 

“Yes. I had to know if you were talking about a real person.” 

“Oh..” 

“You never look into the people you speak to? You never check on their families after they have moved on?” 

John rubbed his thumb over his fingers, feeling uncomfortable with this conversation. “Only if the dead ask me to.” 

“Hmm.” 

“It's not my job to look after everyone Sherlock!” 

Sherlock gave him a puzzles expression, “I'm not saying it is.” 

“Well maybe you should just mind your own business!” John turned around and stormed back upstairs, but quickly turned around to stomp back into the kitchen, “do you believe me now, or not?” 

“I am beginning to, but I need more proof.” 

“More proof? This is two cases I have help you solve, what more do you need!” 

“Information to begin with. Why do they come to you? What do you do for them? Are you the only person you know who can see them?” Sherlock asks at a quick pace, jumping to his feet to walk towards the window. 

John blinks, trying to sort out which to answer first, “umm, I don't know why they come to me. I know one other person who can see them, but I do not want to damage their trust in me. I talk to them, and do things that they couldn't finish when they were alive. You know, the whole unfinished business, passing on with no regrets thing.” 

Sherlock has his back to him as he stares out the window and whips off his next set of questions, “but what do you do for them specifically? Give me an example. And are they always murder victims? Or do you see every kind of death?”

“Uh, no, not just murder victims.” He pondered on his answer, having never actually spoken to anyone about this before, “..any death really, accidents, illness, combat, suicide... and it depends on the person for what they want me to do for them. For the victims of your cases they generally just ask me to find their killer. In Afghanistan I was mostly writing their last letters home for them.” 

Sherlock suddenly stilled at the window, “repeat that last part,” he commanded, head turning towards John. 

“In Afghanistan I wrote letters? There's always been a lot of letters involved, actually, a lot of people die with things left unsaid.” 

Sherlock twirled around and started advancing on John, “how do you address them? Surely no one would believe your story in a letter, do you pretend to be them? A letter of a loved one that happened to get lost in the mail?”

John looked at the man coming towards him at an alarming rate, “um, Sherlock, we should probably talk about something..”

Sherlock stood in front of him searching Johns face, for what John did not know, “how long have you been doing this? When did the letters start?” 

John stared up at Sherlock and then leaned sat down onto the couch, trying to ease away from the sudden tension radiating off of the man, “I was young, around twelve. The first ghost that I talked to by myself,” John looked up at Sherlock, “it was a man who had committed suicide trying to protect his family.”

Sherlock's eyes had widened and he looked like he was frozen in place, “it was you,” he whispered. 

“Yes.”

“The letter. After my father died we received a letter addressed to me and Mycroft, no one else would read it assuming it was junk but I kept it for years...” Sherlock trailed off looking somewhat lost. 

“Yes. I'm so sorry Sherlock, I didn't know if you had gotten the letter. Your father told me not to contact you again. He thought it would be hard on all of us.”

Sherlock glared down at him, “he killed himself. He lost all rights to claim to know what is best for me!” he turned around and strode back to the window. 

“He did it for you, you know,” John said quietly from his place on the couch. 

“I'm sure he did,” came the stony reply. 

“He loved you..”

“Yes, John, I read the letter. Thank you.” Sherlock refused to turn around. 

“You look like him,” John rose from the couch, stepping towards Sherlock. 

“So I've been told.”

“Do you-”

“John, I do not wish to talk about this!” Sherlock whirled around only to find himself face to face with his flatmate. 

“Okay,” John replied. They studied each other for a minute, and then John lifted his hand and placed it on Sherlock's shoulder. 

To both of their surprise, Sherlock didn't move away. 

“Okay,” John said again with a smile. He gave the shoulder a squeeze before letting his hand drop, and turning away. 

Sherlock stared at John's back and then turned to look back out of the window. 

He never questioned John's ability again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! Comments and kudos are always welcome :) 
> 
> See you next Sunday!


	6. Come Together Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When emotions run high on a case, John realizes that he has feelings for Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late! Hope you enjoy :) 
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings, with spoilers: There is a sex scene in this chapter (its pretty vanilla)

“Are you sure you just want this sent to your son? Not your other children as well?” John asks the man lying on their sofa. 

“Yes. My other kids and I already talked years ago. It's just my eldest who never forgave me enough to give me a chance.” 

John nodded in understanding as he finished addressing the envelope. He was lucky that stationary was relatively cheap with the number of ghosts that were coming by wanting letters written recently. The man had appeared just as John had sat down with a cuppa, looking forward to a quiet evening of watching Sherlock play the violin. He should have known nothing is ever quiet in this house.

“Well Mr. Wainwright, I will be sure to send this on soon.” 

“Thank you my dear boy. Oh, and tell your boyfriend that he is a wonderful violinist.” 

John flushed, but before he could say anything else, Mr. Wainwright has already rolled off the couch and is walking into the light.   
John sighs as he sets the letter aside and picks up his and Sherlock's cups for refills. 

“He's gone?” Sherlock asks from his stance by the window, violin momentarily off his shoulder. 

“Yeah. Just wanted to make sure he could apologize to his son one last time. I'll send the letter on my way to work tomorrow.” John answers. 

“He was an alcoholic?” 

“Yeah. He spent his last 20 years in AA trying to make amends with his children.” 

Sherlock is silent for a moment when they both know that John is thinking about Harry. Sherlock plays a soft little melody as John brings the tea out. He can't decide if Sherlock is playing this for fun, or to sooth John's mind. Either way it's a nice song, and John leans back in his chair to close his eyes and listen. 

The times after Sherlock accepted John's ability have been quite possibly the best time of John's life. Gone are the days that he has to worry about talking to ghosts around people. Even in his own home as a child, he had been forced to hide from his parents and his sister. This was, to be perfectly honest, the most comfortable John has ever been. 

The song comes to a sweet end, and Sherlock rests the bow on the chair in order to take a sip of his tea.   
John feels truly peaceful sitting here, in fact he considers heading up to bed soon he is feeling so relaxed. 

“Was-” Sherlock cuts himself off and John blinks his eyes open. 

“Sorry?” 

Sherlock clears his throat, “was that what my father did? Have you write a letter and then disappear right after?” 

John looks at Sherlock. This is the first time he has brought up his father since they talked about it, and he doesn't want to mess this up... “no. He stayed around for a few days.” 

Sherlock sneers, “he had other business to attend to?” 

“No,” John shook his head, “I'm not sure what allowed your father to pass over. All I know is the only reason he stayed behind at all was for you.” 

Sherlock rolled eyes, clearly not believing him. 

“Sherlock, your father-” 

“I do not wish to discuss it!” Sherlock snaps, before rising again to play. 

John sighs and closes his eyes again. He knows that some wounds take longer to heal than others. 

\--

 

John blinks his eyes open to a dark room. He closes his eyes again before squinting them open to look blearily at his clock: 3:45 am. 

Why is he awake? 

John looks around, but nothing looks out of place. His bedroom is the smaller of the two rooms in the flat, which was fine for John. The dresser across the room is simple, with one picture of him and Melinda sitting on top of it from their early 20s. The armchair that he rarely uses still looks untouched, he should probably remember to dust it soon. 

The door is closed, and John is in the bed. He would notice if there was a ghost here, so what happened? 

A scuffling sound comes from under the bed and John stills. Slowly, he moves the blankets aside, and jumps off the bed, turning to face whoever is underneath. 

Nothing jumps out at him. 

John crawls towards the bed, peering underneath but unable to see anything. Grabbing his phone from the nightstand, he shines it underneath to find a ball of fur. John inches closer for a better look. 

It's a dog, well, a ghost dog. He has a gash on his side. Animals killed by car are not uncommon in a big city like London. 

John smiles, it's not often he sees animal ghosts. 

“Hey there,” John whispers. 

The dog perks his head up, blinking in the glare of the phone's light. 

“Oh, sorry mate.” John clicks his phone off. “You can come out, I won't hurt you.” 

John pats the floor beside him, wishing he could bribe a ghost with treats. A little snout pokes out, but that's all. 

“It's okay.” 

A head follows the snout, looking between John and the rest of the room suspiciously. 

“Hey there little guy, what brought you to me, hey?” 

John reached out, wondering if the dog would allow him to pet him. The last cat who had haunted him enjoyed jumping on John's lap only to have John's hand go right through her head. 

Before his hand reached him though, a loud bang came from downstairs. The dog startled and shrank back to cover. 

Cursing, John grabbed his phone to peer under the bed again, but the dog had already vanished. 

Disappointed, John climbed back into bed. He hoped the dog would come back again. 

\-- 

John was trying to look at all the places someone might put a missing dog poster while simultaneously trying to chase after Sherlock. 

Sherlock had come bursting into his bedroom with a case a few hours after the dog incident. Four siblings had gone to visit their parents in the countryside, but they never made it there. The parents had called it in when none of their children had arrived five hours after their planned schedule. When the police tracked down the car, what could have been a hit and run got more complicated when one of the sisters was missing. 

Sherlock suspected an ex-lover was involved. 

Now they were making their way around the missing victims neighbourhood, which so happened to be close to their own. John was sure a dog's ghost would not travel far from it's owner, and he could do two jobs at once. He always had before. So find the owner, find the lover, everyone's happy.   
Well, expect for the owner and the lover. 

“What are you doing?” 

John had been so busy trying to see down an alleyway he had not noticed Sherlock had stopped at a door. John back tracked a few steps. 

“Is this the place?” 

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, “the place for what?” 

“The ex.”

Sherlock gave him an assessing look. “You're not paying attention.” 

“What? Yes I am.” 

“No, you're too busy looking at all the nooks and cranny’s on the street. What are you looking for anyway? I can't imagine you would actually want to seek out ghosts after the week you've had.” 

John agreed, he had had to deal with a lot of ghosts recently, “I'm not. I'm just looking for.. never mind. Why are we here if not for an ex?” 

Sherlock sighed. “John I realize that me knowing about your..” he waved his hand around John, “is important to you, but the work still must come first. Are you still able to focus on the work? You were able to do so before I knew.” 

John frowned, had he really not been paying attention? He had always been able to do both before.. But Sherlock was looking at him so earnestly, he had a hard time saying no.   
“Of course. Case comes first. Catch me up.” 

Sherlock nodded, “this is 'the place' as you say,” Sherlock shot him a little smile, “for where I believe the victims stalker was waiting. Look there,” Sherlock began to point everything out, “a pile of cigarette butts, all the same type, obviously smoked in a row. And there, down a bit, scuff marks on the ground. It was cold two nights ago, he would have been trying to warm himself up. And if we turn around,” Sherlock twirled and held up his fingers in the shape of a box, peering through them, “the perfect view of the front door and the bedroom window above it.” 

“Brilliant.” 

Sherlock smirked, before kneeling down to further investigate the cigarettes. 

“So if she was being watched the whole time, were the others just collateral damage? Her brother might die from the wounds of the crash!” 

“I'm not sure yet.” Sherlock picked up one butt, giving it a thorough sniff. 

“Please don't lick that.” 

He turned to glare at him, “I was not going to.” 

“Sure you weren't. So where to next?” 

“The hospital. I need more information on the victims past.” 

\-- 

John slipped as he turned the corner, pushing himself off of a nearby car and sprinting after Sherlock. Who, of course, had not slipped on the rainy cobblestones of London. The git. 

Panting, John watched as Sherlock reached the man and pushed him against a wall. He was too far away to hear what Sherlock was saying, but the suspect was not putting up much of a fight. John put a hand on his gun as he jogged the last few steps, just in case. 

“Lestrade was right behind you?” Sherlock asked. 

“Yeah.” John replied between breathes. He really needed to get out on runs more. 

“You don't understand,” the man, Daniel Plow, was rambling, “I am her Romeo! She does not know what to do without me!” 

“Right, and you spoke to her how many times now? Three?” Sherlock asked. 

The man glared, “it does not matter. Within the first words we both knew we had a connection that would last our whole lives!” The man began to thrash around. 

“Your whole lives?” Sherlock smirked, “do you think she will still feel this 'connection' after her brother dies?”   
The man replied, but John was not listening. Plow was not trying to get away, he was trying to bring something out. He dove as soon as he saw the gun, managing to knock Sherlock out of the way. He ended up on top of Plow, wrestling for the gun. Plow tried one last desperate attempt, but the bullet wedged into the concrete wall. John threw the gun, and pinned Plow down with his hands behind his back. 

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, had grabbed the gun and had it pointed at Daniels head. 

“Fine. Make sure the safety is on.” 

“Yes. Are-” but Sherlock cut himself off when a police cruiser came speeding down the lane. A second later, Lestrade jumped out shouting, “police!” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Daniel Plow, ask him anything, his obvious obsession with our victim will become clear as soon as he opens his mouth.” 

“I am her Romeo!” Daniel shouted as two officers hauled him off of the ground. 

“See?” 

\--

After Daniel's had been arrested, and Sherlock and John had given their statements, the two of them finally made their way up the stairs of Baker Street, Chinese in hand. 

John groaned as he fell into his chair, lo mien noodles stuffed in his mouth. 

Sherlock sat down across from him. His box remained unopened. 

“Why did you do that?” 

John looked at him in confusion, “because I'm hungry.” 

“No, not,” Sherlock made a noise of frustration, waving his hands in the air, “the thing you did, with Plow, why did you do that?” 

“Because I care about you. I didn't want you to get hurt.” 

“Oh.” Sherlock sat, opening his box, “like a friend?” 

“Yeah,” John shrugged, “or more.” 

Sherlock looked up in surprise. So did John. 

“Sorry, I didn't mean.. I didn't meant to say that..” 

“That is.. alright.” 

They both ate in silence for a while. John could feel the blush spreading across his whole body. Always nice to come to a realization that you might have feelings for someone while talking to them.. but what the man had been saying, about Romeo and Juliette, it reminded John about what made Sigurson finally move on. What if he had meant to give Sherlock a chance, not just as a friend? But as something more? 

“I thought you were..?” Sherlock asked, breaking the silence. 

“Yep.” 

“So, you've never..?” 

“Well, once..in Afghanistan.” 

“Right..” 

“Have you?” 

“Yes. Long term once..but not for a while.” 

“Oh.” John nodded. That explained a few things actually. He wondered what happened to the 'long term' man. 

“I'm clean, but the way.” 

“Oh.” John could feel his blush returning, “good. Me too.” 

They stared at each other for a moment, John could hear his heart pounding in his chest. He took a breath, “do you want to?” 

“Oh God, yes.” 

Food went flying as they both dropped when they were holding and met between the two chairs.   
It was not so much of a kiss as a desperate groping of mouths against each other. John's hands immediately went to Sherlock's shirt. He had been teasing him with these tight things forever, he needed to see, he needed to feel those muscles underneath his hand. 

Sherlock, in contrast, had immediately grabbed his arse. He dragged John forward and on top of him. They ended up with Sherlock leaning against his chair with a lap full of John. John finally finished with all the buttons and tore Sherlock's shirt off, grinding down on the erection he could feel against his inner thigh. He wondered what that would feel like inside of him. 

John continued to move his hips as Sherlock ripped John jumper up and over his head, followed by his vest. Sherlock's tongue was on him instantly, running over his chest, and tasting his nipples. Oh, God that felt amazing. He took it between his teeth, and John groaned, women did not often do that. John enjoyed the sensation for a moment longer, before he put his hands into Sherlock curls and pulled back. 

“I have been wanting,” John panted, lowering his head to Sherlock's neck, “to get my hands in your hair for ages.” He attacked Sherlock's neck, sucking and bitting from jaw to collarbone. 

“John.” Sherlock moaned, hands back around his arse. This time his hands did not stay long before they were working their way around to the front, and undoing John's belt and flies. Then, his hand was in his pants, working John's cock. Oh fuck, it felt amazing. He could have come from that alone. Sherlock had other plans though. 

“Get up, stand up,” Sherlock untangled their limbs, pushing John upwards. 

“What? Did I hurt you?” His worries evaporated quickly, however, when Sherlock sucked down John's cock before he was even fully standing. 

“oh, fuck, Sherlock.” John swore, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair. “I'm not going to last long, you really don't have to..” but Sherlock ignored him, and actually seemed to take John deeper. 

John moaned in absolute pleasure as he received the best blowjob he had ever had.

"Oh, Sherlock!"  
He was sure he could feel Sherlock's grin.

"I'm going to.. very soon!"

But Sherlock did not pull back, in fact he brought his hands up to stroke John's balls for extra measure. John was coming down his throat in seconds, and Sherlock swallowed it all. John's knees gave out, and he collapsed on top of Sherlock. He frantically covered the man in kisses, running his hands up his legs. 

"I'm not sure I know how, but do you want me to?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head, undoing his own fly and reaching for John, "just give me your hand." He rasped, before claiming John's mouth again.

With Sherlock's hand over his own, John strokes Sherlock's dick. He thought it should have felt strange, having another persons penis in his hand, but it felt so normal. So right.

In only a few strokes, Sherlock was coming through his fingertips. John tried to catch it, enjoying the feeling of the sticky substance in his palm. 

They lay together on the floor panting. Neither of them had actually taken their trousers off, and they probably looked like a real sight now. Sherlock began to chuckle first, but soon they were both rolling on the floor laughing.

"That was-"

"Amazing!" John smiled.

Sherlock turned towards him, his laughter turning into a soft smile. 

"Yes, it was." 

\--  
That night they slept together in Sherlock's bed. Neither of them gets much sleep that night.  
\--


	7. Prospering Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock convinces John that he should use his ability for cases. They obtain a ghost dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this chapter! Thank you for reading, kudos and comments are always welcome! :) 
> 
> Heads up, I may not be able to post a chapter next week due to the holidays. But fear not! The story will all be posted eventually.   
> Happy holidays everyone! :)

Sherlock sat leaning against his headboard, staring down at the man he was sharing a bed with. The fact that John shared his feelings had come as an extreme surprise to him. He himself had only realized recently that the good doctor meant more to him than the term friend could hold.

  


With this newfound happiness though, came a measure of doubt. Anyone that Sherlock had ever cared about before had left, usually not by choice. Sherlock has avoided friends for so long, what was he to do now that he actually had something to lose? Could he lose some one important to him again? He didn't know if he could survive.

  


The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he could feel eyes on him.

  


Victors eyes.

  


Sherlock looked around, but obviously didn't see anything. Now that he knew about John, however, the possibility of it actually being Victor haunting him grew exponentially. He wanted to know if John could see him, this ghost that had haunted him for over a decade. How did you ask that if a new lover? Sherlock wasn't sure. He was not sure about any of this.

  


John's body suddenly twitched, and he blinked open his eyes. Catching sight of Sherlock, a dopey smile spread across his face as he stretched his arms out.

  


"Morning, love."

  


The feeling of Victor vanished immediately.

  


Sherlock slithered down the sheets, kissing John's bare chest. He was pleased that John so easily called him pet names. He would like to show his own happiness of their new arrangement.

  


"Good morning." His voice rumbled has he made his way down John's body.

  


John's prick was quick to respond, and Sherlock could not keep the grin off his face. He marked his own voice down as one of John's turn ons.

  


Sherlock did not begin right away. He wanted to take his time. This was not like yesterday, when they frantically fornicated on the floor like teenagers. He wanted to take things slow this morning, show John how desperately he wanted to have him in his bed.

  


"You don't have to." John whispered above him.

  


Sherlock felt utter fondness for the man in front of him. Even with the clear evidence of arousal right in front of Sherlocks face, John was still trying to help Sherlock, putting Sherlock above himself. He had done it last night as well. No one had ever reassured him so much before.

  


"I want to." He replied, before quickly taking John into his mouth.

  


He savoured the salty taste, sucking the tip gently between his lips.

  


John was already moaning against the pillows. Either the man was extremely easy to please, or he had never received a decent blow job before.

  


Sherlock pulled his lips off with a pop, turning his attention to John's balls. He ran circles over them with his tongue, before sucking a portion into his mouth. He continued to work his prick with his fingers, slowly moving up and down the shaft.

  


When he was satisfied with his work, Sherlock brought his tongue back up, running it along John's penis.

Sherlock looked up again, but John was still moaning in the exact same way as before.

  


It would be difficult to gather data on what John liked if he reacted the same way to everything.

  


Dismissing that thought for later, Sherlock took a breath before sucking John's dick down the farthest he could take it. Which was almost to the base.

  


John's hands were back in his hair, gently petting and stroking him. The fondness Sherlock had felt in his chest before grew with each gentle touch.

  


Sherlock bobbed his head. John was already beginning to shake, which was frustrating. Sherlock had barely gotten started. He tried to hold John back with a finger around the base of his penis, but John came with a shout quickly anyway. Sherlock swallowed it down, enjoying the taste in his mouth.

  


He crawled up John's body, shedding his pants on the way. He pushed his cock against John's stomach, rutting against the smooth skin there.

“Is this alright?” He asked.

  


John reached down and squeezed his arse. "Do you want me to?" John asked.

  


“No, this is perfect."

  


He could almost imagine penetrating John like this, having him warm and pliant beneath his body. John grabbed at Sherlocks hair, bringing their mouths together. Sherlock signed into it. A few more thrusts, and Sherlock came against John's stomach. He glanced at John's face, but the man did not seem to mind. Which was nice, it appeared John was not about to have a sexuality crisis.

  


He rolled off, but kept one arm draped across John's chest. John clasped his hand over his, humming softly. They stayed like that for a moment, enjoying the after glow.

  


"So how do you want to do this?"

  


Sherlock lifted one eyelid, "do what?"

  


"Should I shower first alone, or shall we shower together?"

  


Sherlock grinned, standing up and pulling John with him to the bath.

  


\--

 

 

Sherlock stood with his violin beside the window, looking into the night. He was playing a melody from his childhood, one he had not thought of in a long time. He had no idea why he was playing his particular song, it had just popped into his head. Perhaps his new relationship with John was making him more sentimental.

 

He stopped playing when he heard Mrs. Hudson on the stairs.

 

“Yoo hoo,” came the usual welcome call.

 

“Good evening, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock replied, not bothering to turn around. He had heard her attempts to come up here and nose around all day. The woman really was a terrible busybody.

 

“Just coming to check in on you two, brought you some tea and scones.” She said as she placed the tray down on the table.

 

Sherlock glanced at it, noting that they were John's favourite scones, not his. Mrs. Hudson clearly knew who the weaker of the two were.

 

“Where is John?” She asked, pouring cups for Sherlock and herself. Clearly she has invited herself over for the night.

 

“On the phone, upstairs.”

 

They both listened to John's quiet murmur coming down the staircase while Mrs. Hudson stirred in the sugar. Sherlock accepted his tea without thanks, taking a seat and placing his violin to the side. He sat and waited for Mrs. Hudson to get to the real reason why she was up here.

 

“So,” Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully, making herself comfortable on their couch, “what have you two been up to? I feel like I haven't seen either of you in ages!”

 

A seemingly mild comment designed to make the listener feel guilty. It's a shame that Mrs. Hudson had no children of her own, she would have made a great grandmother.

 

“We've been busy.” Sherlock replied, blowing on his tea.

 

“Yes, I could hear.”

 

Sherlock glanced up with a raised brow, “should we move to the upstairs bedroom?”

 

“No, no, dear, don't be silly.” She leaned forward conspiratorially, “although I was wondering if you could spend some time in here. Closer to these walls in particular?”

 

Sherlock looked between her and the wall, “Mrs. Turner?”

 

“The old hag thinks I've made it up! Accused me of trying to compete with her!”

 

“You are competing with her.” Sherlock said, taking a sip of his tea.

 

Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows, leaning back in the chair, “yes, but I'm not trying to. Hers might be married, but they're just a couple of real estate agents. Lovely men, though.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I will keep it in mind.”

 

Suddenly, there was a bang from upstairs, and then a moment later, the bedroom door down the hallway swung open.

 

“Oh, dear!”

 

Sherlock set down his tea, rising from his chair. John came jogging down the steps, looking around the floor.

 

“John! What's the matter?”

 

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson!” John smiled, clearly surprised, “did not know you were here. I would have come down earlier. Do you need anything? Tea?” John asked as he made his way into the kitchen, glancing under the tables on his way.

 

Sherlock wondered what he was looking for, a small child perhaps?

He also wondered how John had kept this secret his whole life. He was a horrible liar.

 

“John, I brought you tea. What's wrong with you? What are you looking for?”

 

“Ah. I see.” John looked at them seriously for the first time and sighed. He gave one last look around the kitchen before coming and joining them in the living room. “Sorry, my cousins new fiancee is building them a house. They made me start thinking about our own floors.”

 

“And what is wrong with my floors?” Mrs. Hudson asked indignantly.

 

John closed his eyes for a second, realizing his mistake, “nothing,” he said with a smile, “I was just going to give them a few tips on what wood will last the longest.”

 

Smooth recovery. Mrs. Hudson seemed pleased, and the two began to chat about John's cousin in America. Sherlock just hoped Mrs. Hudson did not want to travel back there again, she had had enough troubles last time.

 

It was interesting being in on John's secret. What once looked like insanity, or strange quirks, now had simple explanations. It was also amusing to watch him make up lie after lie when speaking to their acquaintances. It made him feel special, knowing that he was one of the few people who knew what John was really doing when he ran off towards invisible objects, or stood talking to himself in the middle of an alleyway.

 

Sherlock has already had to divert Lestrade's attention a few times. They are lucky that Mrs. Hudson has yet to ask any questions.

 

Just as John is cleaning up the tray for Mrs. Hudson to take back down, Sherlock feels it again. The eyes on him. Victor's eyes.

 

He glanced at John, but he doesn't appear to see anything new. Sherlock casts his eyes around the flat. The bedroom door moves on its hinges again. Just a cm or two, but enough for Sherlock to notice. He feels grounded to the spot, afraid to move. Is Victor standing right there, watching him? Aware that John has now replaced the role he once had in Sherlock's life? Can ghosts hurt people?

 

“Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock blinks, and the feeling is gone. He glances up at John.

 

“Everything alright?”

 

“Yes.” He replies, glad his voice sounds fine.

 

“Remember what I said Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson calls from the door.

 

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, have a good night.”

 

John makes sure Mrs. Hudson makes it downstairs safely. Which is insane, she is old not an invalid.

However this buys him time to consider what he will do when John returns. He is not sure he wants to go into that room tonight.

 

His phone buzzes just as John is taking the last few steps into the room.

 

Lestrade. A case.

 

Perfect.

 

\--

 

The case is somewhat tricky. They found themselves on one of the most popular streets of London, police tape irritating busy commuters on their way home. The crime scene was in the middle of the street, point blank shot to the head. The victim had so many enemies, it really could have been a number of people. Anyone of his enemies could have done it. There was no CCTV footage, and no other evidence to go off of.

 

The only interesting thing about the case was the John ducked away halfway through Sherlock's description of these details.

 

Sherlock told Lestrade's men to question the people living in the area, and quickly followed after John.

 

“He will solve it, don't worry.” John was saying to the brick wall of the alleyway.

 

“Will I?” Sherlock asked as he approached.

 

John glanced at him as Sherlock walked forward, but he did not look particularly surprised to see him there.

 

“I was just telling the man, that he does not have to worry about his life ending in a meaningless death. You will find out who did it like you always do.”

 

“Based off of no evidence, no lead, and little interest on my part? Unlikely.”

 

John bristled.

 

“Ask him what he saw in the moments before he was shot.”

 

John glared at him before giving the wall a tight smile, and dragging Sherlock a few meters away.

 

“I don't have to ask him, he can hear everything you are saying!” John snapped.

 

“Excellent, that will make it go much more quickly.”

 

John rolled his eyes, “Sherlock, you can't question the deceased!”

 

“Why not? How is it different from questioning any other victim?”

 

John ran his hand over his face.

 

“One, Lestrade rarely lets you question victims in the first place. And two, how are you going to explain where you get any of your information from?”

 

“If what he tells us is true, the evidence should be there to support it, I just need to find it first. The police barely understand where I get my information, anyway, what difference does it make if I have to lie a little as to where I got it from?”

 

John blinked at him, “you're going to lie to the police?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “only to protect _you_. We will find evidence for everything he says. Don't worry John! This is an incredible opportunity, do you really wish to waste it?”

 

John's eyes searched his face, before turning to the ground in thought. “Alright. I'll talk to him. But try to be a bit more sensitive Sherlock, the man just died.”

 

“Yes, yes, yes.” Sherlock chirped, before pushing John back towards the ghost.

 

“Alright Andy, this is my partner I was talking to you about, Sherlock. He would like to ask you a few questions. I will tell him your answers.”

 

“Tell us what you saw the moments before you died. Nothing is too small, describe every person on the street.”

 

John shot him an annoyed glare, but dutifully listened to everything Andy was saying. John's face look more exasperated as time went on, finally he gave the ghost a small nod before turning back to Sherlock.

 

“He said it was an average day in London. A lot of strangers walking around. He things he saw a glare in the window before he was shot, and his theory is it was a sniper, like quote unquote, 'from Saving Private Ryan.”

 

Sherlock waited, but that appeared to be all, “he took two minutes to say that?”

 

“I'm paraphrasing.”

 

“Right. Well the bullet wound does not match that of a snipers, you would have noticed that already. There is a possibility the shot could have come from a window though. We will look further into that, thank you Andy. One more question, was there anyone in particular that would have wanted to cause you harm? Anyone you had angered recently?”

 

John turned back to Andy, looking entirely unimpressed, “mhm. He has angered a lot of people in his life. Most recently would probably be the guy he owes $100 grand to. Really?”

 

“Excellent! What was his name?”

 

“Buddy Sandy. He works in a casino called the Black Dragon.”

 

“Good, thank you Andy, you can.. go wait somewhere else now while we look into this.” He grabbed John by his elbow, pulling him out of the alley. “I'll go to the Black Dragon, you look into this sniper situation.”

 

“But you can't see Andy, and he can point Buddy out to me.”

 

“But do you know how to gamble, John? I don't need someone to point the man out to me, I just need his name to find him.”

 

John rolled his eyes, “why don't we have Lestrade look into the sniper situation, and we both go to the Black Dragon?”

 

Sherlock paused at the entrance of the alley to give John an approving smile, “good idea.”

 

Then, because they now did this sort of thing, he used their last moment alone together to push John against the brick wall and thoroughly snog him. John responded wonderfully, pulling Sherlock as close to him as possible, entwining their legs together.

 

After a few moments, Sherlock pulled away, placing one last kiss to John's cheek.

 

“Sorry to disappoint you,” John said with a grin.

 

Sherlock looked at him in confusion, “I never said-”

 

“Not you, Andy's a bit mad that the only two people who can help him now are two poofters.”

 

They were both laughing as they approached a confused looking Lestrade to tell him their plan.

 

\--

 

“I see your 200, and raise you 50.” John said as he pushed a pile of chips into the middle of the table.

Sherlock was begrudgingly impressed, John was a decent poker player, and had even won a game. His normally expressive face was emotionless, although he did have at least three tells that Sherlock had seen thus far. Unfortunately, he had to put most of his attention on Buddy Sandy, the Korean suspect Andy had pointed out to John the moment they walked through the doors.

 

Sherlock could see evidence for a number of illegal things that Sandy had done, but none so far that would explain how they knew he was a suspect for Andy's case.

 

He folded his cards the next turn, getting up to check on Lestrade's side of the investigation. To his surprise, John stayed in. He even raise 100 quid.

 

Once outside the club, he bummed a cigarette off of someone before pulling out his phone.

 

After a few quick texts, it became clear that Lestrade had very little. There was one cigarette they were getting DNA off of, but it most likely lead to a dead end.

 

He was just snubbing his cigarette out under his foot when John came barrelling out of the club, nearly running into him.

 

Grabbing Sherlock by his sleeve, he began to pull him away from the building.

 

“We need to go.”

 

“What, now? I don't have anything yet!” Sherlock tried to get his arm back, but John was holding on tight, dragging Sherlock around the corner and glancing behind him.

 

“What did you do?” Sherlock asked suspiciously.

 

“I may have just won 20,000 pounds in an underground gambling ring?” John replied nervously, turning down another street.

 

“Wh- John, stop.” Sherlock grabbed John's hand, pulling him against the wall.

 

“I won, and everything was fine, but then as they were handing me the cash, Buddy started accusing me of cheating! And I thought if I gave it back, that might look more suspicious, so I panicked and just left!”

 

“Well that's ridiculous, just because you won two games, does not mean you were cheating.”

 

John broke eye contact, “uh, well..”

 

“Oh for- John! I'm supposed to be the reckless one, what were you thinking?”

 

“I don't know! Andy offered, and I just didn't say no!”

 

Sherlock grabbed his hand, “yes, obviously this had something to do with Andy.”

 

He pulled John through the city, taking all the back alleys on their way home.

 

\--

 

“They didn't have our names, and I doubt they followed us here.” Sherlock said as he closed the door behind them.

 

“Right, what should we, uh, do with the money? Hide it?”

 

Sherlock gave him a quizzical look, “we'll give it to Lestrade, we just need to think of a reason why we were at the Black Dragon to begin with.”

 

“Right, right.” John nodded, clasping and unclasping his hands as they made their way up the stairs.

 

In the living room, Sherlock pulled out his laptop. It was time to do some researching.

John continued to stand in the middle of the room, looking distressed.

 

“Sherlock, I..”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I should tell you,” John took in a steadying breath, “I have had problems with stuff like this before.. with gambling.”

 

Sherlock blinked up at him, “oh.”

 

“Look it was nothing too serious, as soon as I realized I had a problem I stopped. It was.. it was a way that I could spend time with people in university, and in the army, without having to talk too much.”

 

“Why would you not want to talk to them?” Sherlock asked.

 

“It's not that I didn't want to, it's that people tend to find me, weird. And, creepy.. Doesn't matter. The point is, I had a problem. I should have told you, and I am sorry.”

 

Sherlock felt uncomfortable, did he have to share about his past as well? “John, it's fine. I have somethings I should tell you as well..”

 

John held up his hands, “I wasn't trying to pry. We both have our pasts. I think when everything dies down from this case we should talk, especially now that our relationship is.. uh, developing.”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock cleared his throat, “good.”

 

John nodded. “Tea?”

 

“Please.”

 

\--

 

The cigarette butt came back with the ID of Kim Lee, aka, Buddy Sandy. Sherlock told Lestrade that they had investigated the Black Dragon after one of Andy's 'friends' told them that Andy had gone there a lot, possibly being involved in illicit activity. He handed over the money, claiming that it was the winnings of both John and himself.

 

Lestrade did not question their story, and Buddy Sandy was arrested shorty after.

Andy, according to John, barely said thank you before disappearing into light.

 

John was clearly relieved that the situation was over, happily offering to take Sherlock out to Chinese that night.

 

Sherlock was glad that John was happy, his heart warmed at the sight of John smiling and tucking in to dumplings.

 

He was worried though. His past was far worse than John's own. He was not sure how this night would end.

 

\--

 

John decided that they should have 'the talk' at home. Sitting in their chairs, and sipping on tea.

 

John went first. His life was ordinary, if not a bit lonely. The longest relationship he had ever had only lasted 5 weeks, to Sherlock's surprise. Melinda has been his only close friend. Apparently something about him made him a 'freak' in people eyes. Sherlock almost smiled at that, they were more similar than he had imagined.

 

The only other male relationship he had been in was with his commanding officer, Sholto. John did not stay on the topic for long, and Sherlock did not judge him for it.

 

The gambling hardly seemed an issue now that Sherlock understood it. He would have to remember to keep John away from casinos, and to keep an eye on both of their accounts.

This was fine. Sherlock liked knowing he could take care of John in this way.

 

Now it was his turn.

 

Sherlock let out a shaky breath as he set down his saucer. “My father, as you know, died when I was young..” He paused there, unsure of what to explain next. John gave him an encouraging smile.

 

“Similar to you, I had a hard time connecting with people. I didn't understand them, nor they me. After my father passed, I felt as though my family were not people I could turn to either. The only living beings I cared for were my dog, Redbeard, and my boyfriend, Victor.”

 

Sherlock paused again, but did not feel those eyes on him.

 

“Victor and I.. we did drugs together. Cocain, mostly. Our relationship lasted for the most of 3 years, and it ended when he overdosed the first year out of high school.” The eyes. He could feel them, “John, can you..?” He asked, but he didn't know how to say it, how to word it.

 

John was on the floor between them in an instant, hands warming his knees, “yes, love, what is it?”

 

“I, I can feel him,” Sherlock sniffed, and to his horror realized that he was crying, “I could feel him in rehab just as clearly as I feel him now. He's haunting me, watching me, he blames me for what happened to him.” He blinked away the tears in his eyes before clasping his hands over John's, “I need you to look around, can you see him? Is he here, or did I lose my mind a long time ago?”

 

John squeezed his knees before standing and looking around the room. His brow furrowed, and Sherlock had a sinking feeling that maybe he had been insane all along.

 

“Oh-” John whispered, before crouching down again. He looked between the spot beside his chair, and Sherlock, a look of understanding and fondness spreading across his face.

 

“Sherlock, I think there is someone here to see you.”

 

“Victor? He is here?”

 

“No, someone else, what was his name again? Bluebeard?”

 

His heart nearly stopped in his chest, “what?”

 

“Your dog, love, come down here, he's waiting for you.”

 

Sherlock slid to the floor without second though, “Redbeard?”

 

“Ah, there we go, that's a good boy.”

 

Sherlock stared unblinking as John's hand stroked through the air. “You can touch her?” He whispered.

 

John smiled at him, “only when she lets me. Right now, she's trying to climb into your lap.”

 

Sherlock sat back and crossed his legs, the way he used to sit with her all those years ago. He felt something soft lay across his lap, but there was no weight, and he could not see anything there.

 

“Is she-? I think I can feel her!”

 

“Wouldn't surprise me, she has a strong spirit.”

 

Tears rolled down Sherlock's cheeks as he gently placed his hands beside his lap, “it was you the whole time.”

 

“Yes. Melinda has seen this before. Sometimes a ghost gets called to a person they really loved when they are alone in a time of need. Sadly, the person they are trying to help often feels wrong when the ghost is near them, and it backfires.”

 

They sat silently for a moment, Sherlock marvelling at the feeling in his lap.

 

“There's no one else here, Sherlock. I would have told you if I saw a man haunting you.”

 

Sherlock nodded, “what happens now?”

 

“Well,” John gave a wry smile, “dogs can't really be forced to move on. We might be stuck with her for a while.”

 

“That's alright, she can stay.” Sherlock wasn't sure if he imagined it, but he could have sworn he felt Redbeard's tail wagging against his leg.

 

\--

 

That night, he finished talking to John about his past, and John accepted every part of it. As he and John clung to each other in bed, Sherlock could not think of anything that would make his life happier.

 

He just hoped nothing would happen that would take this from him.

From them.

 

\--


	8. What's Wrong?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John feels uneasy about new ghosts in London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry I have not posted anything in a month!   
> Life got a bit strange, but do not worry, I will still be finishing this fic. 
> 
> If you are following from the tumblr posts, this is a bit different. I decided to change the last few chapters a bit, I think it makes more sense this way. 
> 
> Thank you for reading this story! I hope you enjoy it :)

 

_November 20 th, 5:03 am_

 

John woke up to shouting.

 

Panicked, he bolted upright, causing Redbeard to fall off the bed. “Sorry girl,” he whispered as he glanced around the room. Sherlock was gone, possibly for hours.

 

The lights in the loo and the corridor were out, and there was a smallest bit of sunlight coming in through the drapes.

 

So it was morning, but still early enough to still have lights on.

He did not hear Sherlock's voice in the fray coming from the living room. Hopefully Sherlock wasn't home at all, and they weren't arguing over his unconscious body.

 

John slipped his Browning into the back of his pants, and crept down the hall. He kept a weary eye around him, listing to the voices in the next room. They did not appear to notice his approach. As he got closer he began to hear what they were yelling about. It seemed to be about.. what day it was?

 

John reached the far wall and quickly peered around it. He pulled back in surprise.

 

What the hell?

 

A middle aged woman, a child, and two young men were standing in his living room. They were all dead, and none of them seemed to know what day it was.

 

At least he wouldn't have to apologize to Mrs. H later for all the shouting.

 

John removed his gun, making sure the safety was on, and put it on the table. He would not be needing this after all. With that, he entered the room.

 

The woman was older than the rest, probably in her late fifties. She wore an old fashioned dress, and was also insisting that it was December, 1965. John decided to address that later. The boy was wearing what looked to be a theatre costume, possibly Oliver Twist. He even had the old fashioned cap on. He wasn't saying anything, and looked mildly bored even being here.

 

The two men were in hoodies and jeans. One of them was waving around a cell phone, and shouting that it was the 21st century. Both were glaring at the woman.

John glanced around, checking to see if Sherlock was here as well. He wasn't. And his coat was missing from the hanger, so he must have gone out.

 

John took a step forward, catching the attention of the boy. He beckoned him over, deciding it was best to handle this situation one at a time.

 

The boy jogged over, and John knelt down so that they could be eye level.

 

“Hello there, how are you doing?”

 

“'m al'ight, sir.” The boy replied. John hid a smile, why was the boy still in his Oliver Twist accent?

 

“Good. Can you tell me where you are right now?”

 

“No' sure. M' guess is this is your home, sir. One min'nite I was in heaven, the next I was 'round here again. 'Sept everything looks dif'rent from my days.”

 

John frowned, “I'm sorry, what do you mean by that?”

 

“Well sir, if those gents are right, and it is the 21st century, than I've been dead a few 'undred years!”

 

John leaned back, “wait, you know you're dead?”

 

The woman walked over, “of course he does. We all know.”

 

“Right.” John got back to his feet, “and you said you've been to the other side already?”

 

The boy nodded.

 

“Everyone of us has, except Ed,” the woman gestured to the man holding the cell phone.

 

“Right..And do any of you have a reason for being back? A loved one in need, or something like that?”

 

They all looked around, “well,” the woman began, “I'm pretty sure the boy doesn't have anyone left around here anymore. I only have a daughter, who I feel sure is perfectly fine. What about you two?”

 

The two men shrugged.

 

John rubbed a hand over his face. This was going to be a long day.

 

\--

 

_6:30 am_

 

**Incoming text: Sherlock**

**Meet me at Camberwell New Cemetery.**

 

**Incoming text: Sherlock**

**Bring something to dig with.**

 

John glanced at his phone, and then did a double take. Why was Sherlock at a cemetery this early in the morning? John reached for his phone, but got distracted before he could reply.

 

“There-there!” The boy was shouting, pointing at John's computer screen.

 

The five of them were huddled around John's laptop sitting on the desk. They were trying to see if there was any possible connection between the four ghosts.

 

“That's me, in the front!”

 

The picture was of factory workers during the industrial revolution. Apparently the boy, Arthur, had worked in a textile factory.

 

“How long after this photo was taken did you die?” John asked, trying to see anything else in the picture.

 

“'unno, sir. Not long. I was in an accident in the factory, and my arm and neck were cut up so bad I lost all my blood!”

 

The woman, Stacy, looked down at him, “all of it?”

 

“Well, most 'f it.” Arthur replied with a shrug.

 

“Alright. So Arthur died in a factory accident, Stacy died in a car crash, and Ed and Ted died of an overdose by the same drug. So those don't match up at all..”

 

“Our lifestyles seem quite different as well.” Stacy chimed in.

 

John sighed, “what about your families? Do you have any of the same relatives?”

 

John's phone buzzed again as the four of them started arguing.. again. The same two texts flashed on John's screen.

 

Right. Sherlock-

 

“All of us are from different places.” Ted said, leaning on the desk and blocking John's view of his phone.

 

“What? Really?” John looked around.

 

“I'm from the States, Ed's Chinese, Stacy is Italian, and Arthur's from here I guess.”

 

John scratched at his eyebrow, “right.”

“Maybe we all owned the same thing?” Ed asked, “You know, like a haunted locket or something?”

 

John was right when he thought this before, but this was going to be a very long day.

 

\--

 

_7:0_ _3_ _am_

 

**Incoming text: Sherlock**

**Are you taking the tube or a taxi?**

**I've just arrived. Take taxi, faster.**

 

**Outgoing text: to Sherlock**

**Can not make it to cemetery. Ghost problem.**

**Be careful!**

 

\--

 

_11:08 am_

 

They had gone over any odd, familial, or personal object that any of them could think of. They had gone over all family, friend, or special acquaintance they could think of. They had discussed any reason any of them might be here now, and they still had nothing to show for it.

 

John glanced at his watch, and then did some math in his head. “I think it's time that we can call in some back up.”

 

“Back up?” Arthur asked.

 

“From whom?” Asked Stacy.

 

John replied as he set up Skype, “my cousin. She lives in America, and has the same ability that I do. Maybe she has seen something like this before.

 

\--

 

_11:21 am_

 

“I'm sorry John, but I've never seen anything like this before!” Melinda was wrapped in a dressing gown holding a mug of coffee, and she was looking at all the ghosts around him in utter confusion.

 

Well, there goes that hope then. John rubbed a hand over his face.

 

“I mean, I've seen groups of ghosts, but nothing like this. And some of you have already been to the other side?”

 

“Yes.” They all chorused together.

 

“None of you have anything in common?”

“Ed and I knew each other from before, but that's about it.”

 

“Hmm..” Melinda tapped her mug in thought, “well have you tried-” the computer suddenly made a loud screeching sound, and Melinda's image dissolved into a rainbow blur.

 

“Melinda? Mel!” John clicked around the screen, but nothing happened. He picked up his phone to text, but his phone had the same screen.

 

“What the hell?”

 

“Does this happen often with 'computers?'” Stacy asked.

 

“Um, no.” John replied, clicking around the screen again. Finally the screen flickered, and then showed the Skype screen. Melinda had typed a message:

 

'Have you tried looking at where their bodies rest? Maybe something is disrupting them their. Sorry I can't be of more help!'

 

John moved to reply, but his computer went black and he could not get it on again. He leaned back in his chair.

 

“Do any of you know where you're buried?”

 

\--

 

_11:58 am_

 

“Come on, pick up.” John mutters into his phone. The ringing cuts off into beeps though, and John knows that this is not Sherlock's outgoing voice message. Bloody technology.

 

“I guess it's just us then.” John said to the four ghosts waiting for him.

 

“First stop, my daughters house!” Stacy clapped her hands, “I wonder where she put the urn in her new house!”

 

John threw his jacket on, “we might not find out. We are just going to go near these places, alright? Enough to know if something is wrong. You should be able to feel it.”

 

“Yes, yep, yeah,” they all said, already making their way down the stairs.

 

“And remember I can't talk to you out there!” John whispered before opening the door.

 

\--

 

_2_ _:_ _0_ _7 pm_

 

John pushed his back against the cold brick of the alleyway, leaning his head down and focusing on his breathing. He had not been expecting this.

 

There was far too many ghosts in London than their were meant to be. In the past few weeks, he had noticed an increase, but nothing like this. He could not go more than five feet without another ghost walking towards him, or walking through him, or shouting that they needed help. He could not help all of them though, he could not do this alone.

 

His head was pounding. His fingers trembled where they clutched at his knees. Never before had he been this affected by ghosts, even in the beginning it had just been his emotions causing his heart to pound. What was happening?

 

John stood up, resting his head against the wall. They had been to two of the four resting places, and both of them had been wrong. Either the ghosts did not know where their bodies were supposed to be, or someone had moved them.

 

He had ducked into the alley when Stacy and the rest of them had all began shouting about what their next move should be, drawing the attention of the other ghosts around them. He had been surrounded, and he could feel their tension in his own body. Luckily, none of them had followed him here.

 

Pulling out his phone, he checked to see if Sherlock had contacted him at all. He had not.

 

**Outing text: to Sherlock**

**Are you still busy at the cemetery?**

**I could use your help.**

 

**Incoming alert:  
Unable to deliver text to Sherlock. **

 

John pushed himself off of the wall, pushing his phone into his pocket. He laughed, but it was full of anger. Turning towards the wall again, he slapped his hand against it twice before clenching his fists and releasing his breath through his teeth. He would have to go forward alone. With any luck, Sherlock would be at home when he got their.

 

John glanced back at the entrance he had come in, the ghosts were still huddled together in the middle of the street. It looked like more had joined. He had wanted to help those four, but he could not go back in there. If they wanted his help again, hopefully they would remember where he lived.

 

John turned to walk towards to opposite exit.

 

\--

 

_3:49 pm_

 

John closed the door to 221B Baker Street, leaning his head against the wood. Thank God he was home. He stayed that way for a minute, calming himself down. He needed some water and some ibuprofen. And to sit for at least a few minutes.

 

Moving away from the door, John slowly stepped up the stairs. As he walked into their flat, he noticed that Sherlock was home, lying on the couch. John began to smile in greeting, but stopped in surprise.

As Sherlock looked over at him, he noticed that he throat was covered in welts, and he had a cut beside his left eye.

“Jesus, Sherlock, are you alright?” John moved towards the sofa to inspect his injuries, but Sherlock stood up and backed away. “What's wrong? What happened?”

 

He sank into the couch that Sherlock had just vacated, watching Sherlock for any signs of concussion.

 

Sherlock walked over to the mantle, rubbing his throat, “I went to the warehouse and was attacked by a man I believe is known as the Golem. I was able to escape by using some chains that had been used to carry parcels before the warehouse shut down. Unfortunately, the Golem is still out there, but I doubt I could find him again. The warehouse was full of dead bodies, I am trying to think of the next step in Moriarty's game.”

 

John moved his eyes from Sherlock to the tables that were now covered in paper, trying to think if he was supposed to know any of this information, “I'm sorry, what? Moriarty? The Golem? Who are these people?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I texted you all of the information you would need to know to join me on this case. Considering you have not replied, I take it you do not wish to help me on this one? Fickle about the cases you join me on as ever, John.”

 

John furrowed his brow, Sherlock sounded mad at him. “Sorry, my phone has not been working. I would love you help you, Sherlock, I've been a bit busy myself today.”

 

“Right of course, the ghosts.” Sherlock made a face when he said it. As if he was mocking him.

 

“Yes, the ghosts,” John frowned, “I actually think there might be something going on-”

 

“I don't have time, John. I realize that it is something you need to deal with, but the work comes first.”

 

John pulled back, “I'm sorry, the work comes first? Over everything? What about..”

 

“What about what? Us?” Sherlock gave a cruel laugh, “don't be stupid John. Caring is not an advantage.”

 

John blinked his eyes furiously, “stupid? Just last night we were lying in bed together, and now I'm stupid for thinking that we-”

 

“Yes, well, that's your problem. You should never do the thinking.”

 

John turned away, hiding his face, “I don't understand.”

 

“No surprise there.”

 

John ignored that, “We've barely even spoken today!”

 

Sherlock stalked over to his desk, picking up some pages before stalking towards the door.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“Out.”

“Sherlock, I can't follow after you this time. Something happening out there.”

 

Sherlock turned to look at him, “so if I walk out this door, you won't come after me?”

 

John hesitated, unsure of what Sherlock wanted from him.

 

Sherlock stormed down the stairs and out the door before he replied.

 

\--

 

_5:05 pm_

 

John sat on the couch for a while before he got up. Based on the pages on the table, it looked like Sherlock was investigating witchcraft, or black magic. This just made more questions that could not be answered.

 

John went into the kitchen and gulped down some water and painkillers. Hopefully that would be enough to get rid of this blasted headache.

 

Sherlock had not come back, and John's phone was still not working. John sighed as he made his way down the stairs after Sherlock. Hopefully the streets would be better at night.

 

He barely made it a block before something hit his head and everything went black.

\--


	9. Your Problems Are Your Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock follows a trail that Moriarty has left for him, and becomes upset when John does not want to join him.   
> Sherlock's POV of last chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: there is a fight scene in this chapter against a disturbing bad guy.

_November 20 th, 4:34 am_

 

**Incoming text: Lestrade**

**Something you should see.**

 

**Incoming text: Lestrade**

**Come down to the NSY when you get a chance.**

 

 

Sherlock glanced at his phone from where it buzzed on the side table. The texts had been sent twenty minutes ago, Lestrade should still be in his office then. Quietly, Sherlock slipped out of bed. As he moved towards the door, he felt something brush against his leg.

 

Redbeard.

 

He could feel her presence as he dressed and got ready for the day. After he pulled on his coat, he knelt down to the floor. He was not sure where she was, but it didn't matter, she was here.

 

“Don't worry, girl, I'll be back. Look after John while I'm away.”

 

He closed the door behind him and stepped down the stairs, the presence did not follow. Good.

Hopefully he would be back before John woke up.

 

\--

_5:25_ _am_

 

Lestrade was sitting at his desk when Sherlock walked in, “case?”

 

Lestrade looked up, his eyes had bags under them, “yeah, but one you've already solved.”

 

Sherlock paused in front of the chair he had been about to sit in, “problem?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then why am I here?”

 

Lestrade grinned, “the body has gone missing. And this was left behind.”

 

Sherlock took the envelope Lestrade was holding out to him as he sat down. He pulled out his magnifying glass, and inspected every inch of the envelope. He leaned forward to use Lestrade's desk lamp to inspect the writing. The envelope read: To Sherlock, Love Moriarty.

 

“Clearly they want to impress, but I have never met them before.”

 

“Right, clearly.”

 

Sherlock glanced at him, “the quality of the paper, and the style of writing.”

 

Lestrade just nodded, used to Sherlock by now.

 

Sherlock carefully opened the envelope, and poured out its contents. Inside was a locket.

The locket was old, he suspected 17th century. Any words that had been on it had been eroded, but he could make out engraved markings. Sherlock pried it open to find a few strands of dark brown hair. He closed it again, and shoved it into his pocket to consider later.

 

“Why would someone leave you a locket full of hair?”

 

“I don't know yet. Where was the body that was taken?”

 

“It had already been buried, Camberwell New Cemetery.”

 

S herlock nodded once, and then moved to leave the office. 

 

“And keep me updated!” Lestrade called after him.

 

\--

 

_ 6:02 am _

 

As Sherlock left NSY he hailed down a cab. He would head over to the cemetery, but only after he talked to his network. Something was happening, and he needed all eyes and ears open.

 

\--

 

_ 6:30 am _

 

Sherlock was back in the cab, heading towards the cemetery. He had at least three different people from his network spreading the word, and he expected an update soon.

 

Now, he thought it was probably late enough in the morning to wake John up to join him.

 

**Outgoing text: To John**

**Meet me at Camberwell New Cemetery.**

 

Sherlock tapped on his phone and thought for a minute, he was not sure what he would find at this cemetery. He sent another text.

 

**Outgoing text: To John**

**Bring something to dig with.**

 

He waited, expecting a reply complaining about being woken up. John did love his beauty sleep.

 

\--

 

_7:00 am_

Sherlock jumped out of the taxi, throwing money at the driver. He glanced around but there was no one here. Of course not, it was far too early for anyone to be mourning their loved ones.

 

Sherlock pulled out his phone.

 

**Outgoing text: To John**

**Are you taking the tube or a taxi?**

**I've just arrived. Take taxi, faster.**

 

**Incoming text: John**

**Can not make it to cemetery. Ghost problem.**

**Be careful!**

 

Sherlock felt something creep up his spine. It was not anger it was.. something else. He pulled up his collar, but he could not shake the feeling. He started to reply but found he had nothing to say.

 

Sherlock frowned, he had a sense of foreboding in him. But then he shook his head, this was ridiculous, John would join him later when he could. John was useless when he was distracted by ghosts anyway.

 

Sherlock made his way towards the building. He needed to find the grave.

 

\--

 

The people running this cemetery were tedious. None of them were here at 7 in the morning, so Sherlock had broken in to find the lot that David Smith had been buried in. Easy.

 

Except it had taken forever.

 

Cemeteries had apparently not updated their files onto computers yet, and they also had no form of organization. It took Sherlock a full 10 minutes longer than he had anticipated to find a damn number.

 

Tedious.

 

By the time he was storming out of the building and down a path, there was a man shouting after him asking what he was doing here.

 

Sherlock ignored him.

 

As he neared the grave site, Sherlock tracked his eyes around the tomb stones. There had been a lot of people around recently. It also looked like David's was not the only grave that had been dug up.

 

As he neared the final few feet before David's grave, Sherlock noticed that only two sets of foot prints had been here recently.

 

Whoever had taken the body, and whoever had picked up the locket. Sherlock inspected them both. Both male, one around 5'10, the other over 6 feet. It did not look like either of these sets of foot prints had been carrying a 200 pound dead man. Sherlock crouched down.

 

The smaller footprints were strange, almost like they had been purposefully placed. Sherlock frowned, eyes roaming to the area around him. They also disappeared as soon as they were away from the grave.

Had they just been preserved here because fewer people walked here? Maybe. Something was off though.

 

Sherlock took a few steps and crouched beside the grave itself.

 

Nothing of interest jumped out at him, it was just a normal grave. A normal coffin. He turned to the stone. There was a smudge of dirt left on it, dirt that did not match the colour of the soil around him.

 

Sherlock pulled out the evidence bags he had stollen from the yard.

 

He was going to have to take a trip to Molly's.

 

\--

 

_8:48 am_

 

Molly's shift did not start until nine, so Sherlock saved her the energy and broke into the lab on his own. He was well into his analysis of the dirt when she arrived. He was glad that she was not surprised to see him when she walked in. They had finally moved on in their friendship.

 

They worked side by side quickly and quietly. Molly was finishing up her work from last night until more bodies arrived in the afternoon. Sherlock liked working here, Molly was not like John, she wasn't constantly asking questions and trying to follow along with what he was working on ... Until Molly lifted the lid of the X-ray machine.

 

“Is this.. a locket?” She asked, holding it up by the chain.

 

“Ah, yes, I had forgotten I put it in there.” Sherlock gestured for her to put it down anywhere. She ignored him.

 

“It's beautiful, is it from someone?”

 

“It's for a case.” Sherlock mumbled, it was really more enjoyable when they did not talk to each other.

 

“There's hair in it.”

 

Sherlock looked up again, Molly was holding the hair, inspecting it. Sherlock stood up.

 

“Don't touch it!” He snapped, leaning forward to grab the locket, “we don't know how old this hair is, or what the significance of it means. At least you had the brain to wear gloves before ruining my evidence.”

 

Molly pulled back, holding the locket out of reach, “I'm sorry, Sherlock, but if I'm so _damaging_ to your cases, than why are you using _my_ lab?”

 

Sherlock froze, moving his eyes from the locket he was still reaching for to Molly, “sorry, what?”

 

“You know what, Sherlock, I don't even have to allow you to do this here! Finish up and go, before you ruin _my_ work!” With that, Molly slammed the locket down on the counter, and stalked out of the room.

 

Sherlock watched her go, before picking up the locket and inspecting it. Nothing had been damaged, everything as fine. He began to feel a bit guilty about snapping at her. As he walked back to his station, his fingers began to tingle. He placed the locket on the counter beside him, rubbing his hands together.

 

He wished Molly had offered him coffee before storming out.

 

\--

_10:39 am_

 

**Outgoing text: to John**

**If not busy: research the name Moriarty.**

**I am at Barts analyzing dirt and a locket.**

 

 

_11:25 am_

 

The analysis was finished. The dirt residue was from an area in London that was surrounded by warehouses. He had narrowed it down to one in particular that was used to hold ships.

 

Two members of his network had gotten back to him, one informed him that more bodies than David Smith's had been removed from their graves in the past week. The other told him that people all over London were acting strange, but that was hardly new – or relevant – information.

 

Sherlock pulled out his phone before getting ready to leave. John would not want him investigating mysterious warehouses by himself.

 

**Outgoing text: to John**

**Analysis leads to warehouse.**

**Join me as backup?**

 

He cleaned up the lab, putting it back to the way it had looked before he left. No reason to have Molly be more mad at him. He almost forgot the locket, sitting on the counter. The X-ray had shown that it was really just an ordinary locket. Sherlock would need more evidence before he could figure out what the meaning behind it was. Sherlock put it back into his pocket.

 

He stood for a second, realizing that there was nothing left to do and John had not gotten back to him.

 

**Outgoing text: to John**

**Meet me at warehouse.**

 

He stared down at his phone, a bubble of anger rising in him. John was the one who always insisted that he had backup, and now he wasn't replying? He disliked mixed messages, they wasted his time.

 

He sent John the address of the warehouse before leaving the lab, slamming the door on his way out.

 

\--

 

_12:02 pm_

 

Sherlock stood looking up at the warehouse. The dirt surrounding the building suggested that there had been a lot of activity here recently, which one would not expect from an abandoned warehouse. He looked up and down the street, but there was no one nearby.

He pulled out his phone one last time, but John had not replied. Doing what he disliked to do the most, Sherlock hit the call button and put his phone up to his ear. The phone beeped back at him and then went directly to voicemail. Either John's phone was off, or he was already on it. The later idea filled him with anger and uncertainty. Was John ignoring him? He had said that he was busy with ghosts, but he had never avoided Sherlock's messages before. And the only thing that had changed recently was their relationship..

 

Fear and embarrassment washed over him. Did John no longer care what Sherlock was doing now that he had gotten what he wanted from him? That was ridiculous, John was not like that..

 

And yet..

 

Sherlock shoved the phone into his pocket, angry that was getting so distracted while he was following a lead. The work came first. Always.

\--

 

_12:22 pm_

 

The warehouse was clean inside. No dust to show footprints on. Sherlock gave a quick glance into some of the small office rooms beside the entrance, but there was nothing of interest. He entered the main room of the warehouse.

 

It was large, three stories tall. It had obviously been used to build and store ships, based on the chains, levers, and racks of metal that lined the walls. There was no wood left here, that would have all be taken. These were all boring and unimportant facts. The important information in this room was that:

1) there were piles of dead bodies covering the floor, all of them covered in painted symbols. Sherlock even spotted a few urns dripping with paint; and

2) there was a very tall, muscular man standing in the middle of the room holding onto a - clearly already dead - woman by the throat.

 

Sherlock froze. The man was large, bald, well dressed. He had enormous hands, and had possibly just killed the woman he was currently holding. From the look on his face this was nothing new, killing was normal. Hired to kill?

 

Hired to kill. Large hands. Strangling. There was a chance that this man was the infamous Golem. An assassin who was known for leaving no victim alive.

 

Sherlock took a step back. He did not need to face this man unarmed.

 

The Golem jerked his head towards him.

 

Fuck.

 

Sherlock ran. So did the Golem. Even if he made it outside, at the rate they were going, the Golum would catch up to him fast. There was nothing outside but gravel to help him.

He pivoted, sprinting towards the metal racks. Maybe if he could get a weapon, knock him out? Climb?

No. Stupid. He would just climb after him.

 

Sherlock did not bother to look behind him, he knew the Golem was catching up. He almost made it to the metal racks when his jacket was snagged, and Sherlock was pulled backwards and around. Then he was lifted off the ground by his neck, the Golem squeezing with one purpose in mind. His beady eyes showed the pleasure he had in strangling the life out of people.

 

Sherlock gasped, flailing for anything around them that might help him. His hand hit a chain that hung from the ceiling. He grasped onto it and flung it towards the Golems head. It hit, but the Golem did not seem affected. He did it again, and again, and again. There were black spots in his vision. One last time, and then he was falling. Gasping for breath, Sherlock stumbled to his feet. The Golem was not down, but his head was bleeding.

 

Sherlock picked up the chain again, this time he could use the heavy bottom of the chain to his advantage. The Golem cried out what could only be described as a roar, and charged towards Sherlock again. Sherlock swung the chain, aiming for his head once more. The Golem fell instantly unconscious.

 

He did not bother to wait and see how long the giant would stay down, Sherlock took one last look around the room before running out of the warehouse.

 

\--

 

_2:14 pm_

 

Sherlock collapsed into his chair at Baker Street. John was not home. Sherlock ignored the fact that he found this disappointing.

 

He took stoke of the damage that had been done to his body. His neck was obvious, Sherlock would probably have those marks for a while. His back hurt from how he landed when the Golem dropped him. Other than that, he felt pretty okay. Sherlock considered for a moment, and then got up to get an ice pack he knew John kept in the freezer. Sherlock held it to his throat, hoping that this was all he would need to do.

 

Sherlock looked around the flat and noted John's gun sitting on the table. For the third time that day Sherlock wondered what the hell the little man was up to. Sherlock had needed him, and he hadn't been-

 

Sherlock cut that thought off. Sherlock did not need anyone.

 

He considered his next move. The bodies in the warehouse had been covered with marks he did not recognize, he would start there.

 

Setting the icepack aside, Sherlock moved to his laptop.

 

\--

_4:00 pm_

 

The marks were apparently for black magic spells. Spells to keep the spirits of the dead from leaving their body. Spells to pull the spirit back to their body. Even a few months ago, Sherlock would have rolled his eyes, but now that he had met John... he was unsure what to make of this.

 

These also did not bring him any closer to understanding what was happening with the locket. Sherlock pulled it out to inspect it again, but it had none of the markings he had seen at the warehouse.

 

He heard the door downstairs open and close. John was home. Sherlock put the locket into his trousers pocket and picked up one of the papers. He wasn't really looking at it though. His mind was focusing on his emotional reacting to John coming home, which was mostly anger and fear. He had to focus on the work. The work came first. It was meant to come first.

 

John finally walked into the room and smiled at him. Sherlock could not bring himself to smile back. John's eyes quickly found the injuries on his neck, and he moved to get a closer look. Sherlock could not deal with this right now, he moved to the desk.

 

John asked what had happened. Sherlock walked over to the mantle, rubbing his throat, “I went to the warehouse and was attacked by a man I believe is known as the Golem. I was able to escape by using some chains that had been used to carry things before the warehouse shut down. Unfortunately, the Golem is still out there, but I doubt I could find him again. The warehouse was full of dead bodies, I am trying to think of the next step in Moriarty's game.”

 

John's eyes were moving around the flat, “I'm sorry, what? Moriarty? The Golem? Who are these people?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I texted you all of the information you would need to know to join me on this case. Considering you have not replied, I take it you do not wish to help me on this one? Fickle about the cases you join me on as ever, John.”

 

John furrowed his brow, “sorry, my phone has not been working. I would love you help you, Sherlock, I've been a bit busy myself today.”

 

“Right of course, the ghosts.” Sherlock replied, thinking about John's text from earlier. If John had been able to text that, his phone was obviously working.

 

“Yes, the ghosts,” John frowned, “I actually think there might be something going on-”

 

“I don't have time, John. I realize that it is something you need to deal with, but the work comes first.”

 

John pulled back, “I'm sorry, the work comes first? Over everything? What about..”

 

“What about what? Us?” Sherlock laughed, thinking about all the trouble their relationship had already caused him that day, “don't be stupid John. Caring is not an advantage.”

 

John blinked his eyes, “stupid? Just last night we were lying in bed together, and now I'm stupid for thinking that we-”

 

“Yes, well, that's your problem. You should never do the thinking.” A petty argument, but Sherlock was mad. His fingers twirled around the chain of the locket in his pocket.

 

John turned away, “I don't understand.”

 

“No surprise there.”

 

John ignored that, “We've barely even spoken today!”

 

Now John was acknowledging he had ignored him? Sherlock stalked over to his desk, picking up some pages before stalking towards the door.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“Out.” Away from you.

 

“Sherlock, I can't follow after you this time. Something happening out there.”

 

Sherlock turned to look at him, “so if I walk out this door, you won't come after me?”

 

John hesitated, which was all the answer he needed. John did not care enough to chase after Sherlock. Sherlock had been an idiot for thinking that John cared at all.

 

Sherlock stormed down the stairs and out the door before John could reply.

 

\--

 

_4:52 pm_

 

Sherlock had walked towards the closest cemetery, but once he got there he wasn't sure what he wanted to find. He had thrown out the pages he had taken with him on the way here, they had not helped him.

 

Sherlock stood in thought at the entrance of the cemetery. He had heard rumours of a man named Moriarty before. The cabbie John had shot had said Moriarty had helped him, and others as well. But why would this Moriarty collect bodies from all over London and paint symbols on them? And why would he give him a locket?

 

Sherlock pulled out the locket again, looking inside at the hair. He considered all of the emotions that were running through his body right now. A locket full of hair.. that would have been a sign of love in the 17th century. The letter had even said love Moriarty. Did Moriarty actually love him? Sherlock thought back to the crimes he had solved, the clues that had been lain out for him today. Had this all been some strange courting ritual?

 

Sherlock turned around and started to walk toward a main road again. He was going back to the warehouse to find out what the hell was going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :) 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always welcome. Only three more chapters to go!


	10. Help Me/Save Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John vs Moriarty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers! 
> 
> This chapter kind of got away from me, and turned more Supernatural than Ghost Whisperer :/  
> I hope it still makes sense!  
> Only two more to go :) 
> 
>  
> 
> warnings: some injuries in this chapter, and descriptions of creepy ghost things.

John regains consciousness slowly. The first thing he notices is that the pain in his head has grown at least 10 times what it had been. The second is that there is a presence near him that he has never felt before. He squints his eyes open, trying to see where he is and what the hell is going on. 

He is in a warehouse covered in blood and gore. There are two living men standing my the doors, and something else. He isn't a ghost. John doesn't know what he is. Glancing around John realizes that he is in the warehouse Sherlock must have been attacked in. There are marks covering all of the bodies, and paint and blood spread on the walls forming similar charms. 

“Oh good,” the thing turns towards John, “you're awake.” 

It walks (no, glides?) towards him, bringing the presence he felt nearer. John couldn't stop the next words that came out of his mouth, “what the fuck are you?” 

The thing threw back its head and laughed, then gave John a smile that was all teeth, “I'm James Moriarty, hi!” it gave a comical wave. 

John scrambled to his feet. He was glad to discover he was not tied down in anyway.  
“What do you want with me?” 

“I want to take you out of the equation.” 

John felt a shiver go down his spine, “you want to kill me?” 

“No, don't be so boring. Your life would be a waste if I simply just killed you. I want to use your energy to make something greater than yourself.” 

John glanced around, nervous, the guards were watching them with their guns drawn. 

“So what? You want to use bodies as a new renewable energy? I think you've taken Soylent Green a tad too seriously, mate.” 

Moriarty smiled at him, “don't worry little Johnny. You don't have to understand anything, I'm just waiting for your dear master to show up. You just sit here and relax.” 

John felt a pressure forcing him backwards. It was like he was being pushed, but Moriarty hadn't even taken a step towards him. He fell backwards and down, leaning against the concrete. 

Moriarty turned to leave. “Wait, you never answered my question.” 

Moriarty swiveled around and John was horrified, his face moved slower than the rest of him, leaving a black gaping hole in its place for a spit second. Moriarty didn't seem to have noticed this had happened though. 

“What am I?” He asked, lifting his arms into the air to show himself off. 

“You're not a ghost. Not really.” 

Moriarty grinned, “am I not? Got a lot of experience with that, Johnny?” 

John just glared. 

“You're right, that would be boring, I like to touch-” suddenly, like a gust of wind, Moriarty was right in front of him, his hand roughly stroking his face, “-I like to feeel.” 

John resisted the urge to move away. Then he blinked, and Moriarty was back to standing in front of him. 

“You could call me the walking dead. I have taken something that everyone does, and used it to make myself stronger.” 

“What about the people, what happens to them?” 

Moriarty just walked away again, “don't know, don't care. Now be a good little pet and sit there quietly until your owner comes to fetch you.” 

Moriarty walked towards one of the guards, and they began talking. Which meant they could see and hear him. John took a steadying breath, this was going to be a challenge. 

He looked around the warehouse again. Moriarty was going to use all of these souls to make himself even stronger. What would happen to them? John doubted they would just move on to the other side.  
He wasn't sure what to do. He couldn't just set the place on fire, the might not remove the paint and blood marking all of the bodies. He wasn't even sure if that was all he had to do to free them. 

He cursed himself for not reading the pages Sherlock had left scattered on the coffee table. Life was easier when they worked together. John was doubting Sherlock had even noticed he was missing. 

Movement to his left caught his attention, and agonizing hope flared in his chest. It wasn’t Sherlock though, obviously he himself had just realized Sherlock did not even know he was missing. No, it was Arthur and Ted. 

John made sure he stayed still. He did not know what Moriarty could or could not do, but he didn’t want to draw attention over. 

They came over to him, and the two others did as well. John had never been so happy to see ghosts before in his life. 

“John! We used your advice and followed our connection to out bodies! And we found this place!” Stacy told him. 

John nodded, and then glanced back at Moriarty. He made no sign that he had heard her. 

“It’s okay, John,” Ed said, “we’ve been around here for a while. No one can see us. Not even that creepy poltergeist dude.” 

Poltergeist? Maybe. John had only been a few, but they had never been like this. 

“Sir,” Arthur piped in, “there’s something we need to tell you. Something about your friend!” 

“Melinda?” He whispered, not taking his eyes off of Moriarty. 

“No, the one you mentioned but we never met. Sherlock.” Stacy said, “this ghost is a maniac, John. He plans on using all of our bodies and souls and putting their energy into himself. He’s going to make himself solid. And immortal!” 

John felt nauseous. Could Moriarty do that? 

“And that’s not all,” said Ted, “him and his men have been talking about you two all day. They’ve been watching you for a while, John. He knows you can see ghosts, but he thinks that boring. It’s Sherlock he wants. He said Sherlock was someone who could finally hold his interest. He said he wanted to do the same thing to Sherlock that he is doing to himself!” 

“Shit.” John murmured, closing his eyes. How the hell was he going to save Sherlock from his lunatic. 

John felt a gust of wind against his face, and he knew before he opened his eyes that Moriarty would be standing here again. He opened his eyes anyway. 

“Who are you talking to Johnny? Some ghost pals come to say hello?” 

John just glared. 

“I’m sure they told you all about my plan, but no matter Johnny. All you can do is talk to them. You have no power to save them. So all I have to do is this,” Moriarty snapped his fingers, and one of the burly men at the door started towards John, “and my problems are over.” 

John pushed himself to his feet, but whatever Moriarty had done to him was still in effect. He couldn’t push himself away from the wall. Nonetheless, when the man started to tie John up, he was able to get a good headbutt in. The satisfying crack of nose against bone was enough for John, even if the man punched him in the stomach after, John could see that he had broken it. The last thing they did was gag him, tying the knot roughly on the back of his head. 

He sank back down to the floor afterwords. Moriarty and the guard walked away without a word, viewing John as Sherlock useless toy. Anger bubbled in John’s stomach. He was more than that. He would be more than that for Sherlock. 

He just needed a plan. 

–

Ghosts are remarkably useful when you want to know something. None of the guards, which are more than John can see, are watching what they are saying. They are all boasting that their boss will soon be indestructible. They compare who is making more money out of this deal. They laugh about the dead bodies in the warehouse covered in paint. They laugh at Sherlock. Even if he is a genius, he won’t be able to solve the problem of the symbols, Sherlock uses his brain, not magic.  
So pretty much, they spill every secret their little organization has, not realizing that there is always someone listening. Amateurs. 

John listens to everything the ghosts tell him, and he thinks up what to do when Sherlock arrives. Because John now knows that Sherlock will arrive, on his own free will, because Moriarty left some clues out for him. Bloody idiot. 

Taking a breath, John closes his eyes and thinks. Clearly the symbols on the bodies are important. He just isn’t sure if rubbing them off would work, or is they were just part of a spell that is now forever attached to that body. 

Also, how is he going to test any theory while he is tied up on the ground? 

Suddenly, the room goes silent. Moriarty swaggers to the center of the room, and then posses there. His intentions are clear. 

It’s showtime. 

John hears the doors of the warehouse open slowly. Cautiously. John hopes that Sherlock was cautious in more ways than one, and had called for backup before coming here. Although John isn’t sure what Lestrade would do once he got here. 

Sherlock’s steps are sure once he’s in the building. In no time at all he in the room with the rest of them. Pointing John’s gun at Moriarty’s head. 

John tries to shout, tries to warn him away, but Sherlock doesn’t even look at him. All of his attention is on Moriarty. Moriarty is practically dancing with glee. 

“Sherlock my sweet, I see you got my clues!” 

“And more,” Sherlock replies, reaching into his pocket to pull out what looks like a locket. 

“Yes, my love note too. I am so glad you feel the same.” 

Sherlock doesn’t reply, his eyebrows curve down in confusion, and his eyes dance around the room. They land on John, and he looks even more confused. John had not known this was possible.  
But as soon as Moriarty starts talking again, Sherlock’s attention is snapped back to him. It’s like he has forgotten John is even there. 

Moriarty is tell Sherlock about how long he has loved him. How long he has watched from afar, waiting for when Sherlock would be ready to join him. Sherlock’s eyes were not sharp, they were hazy. His whole body looked like he had been hypnotized.

John only pays partial attention to this, the rest of him is trying desperately to get out of these bonds. Frantically, he stares down at the closest symbol to him, wishing with all of his might that while he might not be able to rub the mark away, maybe it will just go away if John really really wanted it to. 

Miraculously, it did. 

As John concentrated on the mark, it faded away to nothing. That didn’t answer any of his questions though. 

“John, do mine.” Stacy, who was hovering anxiously beside him with the other three ghosts, stepped forward.

John raised his eyebrows in question, they weren’t sure if it would work. 

“It’s okay, I had a good life, and even a good afterlife. You helped me, I can help you and your friend.” 

John hesitated before nodding once, silently thanking her. He focused his attention on her mark, willing it away. As it faded, a light appeared around Stacy. She didn’t step into it, it engulfed her. John was not showing her the other side and giving her the choice, he was forcing her into it. 

But she accepted it with a smile, and the last thing he heard before the mark completely vanished was, “it’s exactly how I remember it.” 

John closed his eyes in relief, but he couldn’t keep them closed for long. He immediately moved on to the next mark, willing it away with his mind. It disappeared faster than the last, and John could feel it now. The peace of a ghost resting on the other side. 

John knew how to save them. 

He could save them all. 

–

Sherlock did not understand the emotions he was feeling. Betrayal, anger, happiness, loneliness, and love all flowed through him at once. He did not understand where any of them were coming from. 

Moriarty was telling him his grand plan. The two of them could be together forever, powerful immortals causing chaos in the shadows of the world. But Sherlock didn’t want that, did he? His emotions were telling him that he did. 

His body had not moved since he had gotten there, and his arm was getting tired from holding the gun. 

“What you need to do now, darling,” Moriarty was saying, “is take that gun and shoot yourself in the head.” 

Sherlock blinked, “why?” 

“Because then we can be together forever. I can rebuilding you to be exactly like me.”

Sherlock stared at him. 

“This is what you want, Sherlock. Now move the gun and shoot yourself in the dead.” 

Sherlock felt his arm moving the gun towards himself. He pressed it against his temple. 

“Good, darling, now pull the trigger.” 

Sherlock moved his sweaty hands, trying to find the proper grip to do this. 

“Sherlock!!” 

John. 

Sherlock’s eyes found him in a second, like he had already known exactly where he was. Which he had, of course, he had known John was there this whole time.

Hadn’t he? 

He adjusted his stance, and squeezed his hands. Something dug into his palm. The locket.  
Sherlock looked down at it, had he been clutching this the whole time? How long had he and Moriarty been talking? 

Sherlock unclasped his hands, and let the locket slide out of his grip. The change was immediate. His mind was no longer full of confusion or unknown emotions. This had not merely been a symbol of love, this had been a tool for manipulation. 

“Sherlock, I told you to pull the trigger.” 

Now that the locket was no longer in his hand, this sounded like an incredibly stupid thing to do. Sherlock pulled the gun away from his head and shot the locket instead. 

“NO!” Moriarty growled, “you were supposed to kill yourself! You were supposed to be like me!” 

“I guess I’m not.” Sherlock said simply. 

Moriarty let out a howl, and then took a step towards him. Sherlock felt a force push against him, making him step back. But that was it. 

“You know, for a strong, powerful being, I was kind of expecting more than that.” Sherlock smirked, and then glanced towards John so that they could share this joke. Moriarty was turning out to be nothing but talk. 

When he saw John, however, the smile fell from his face. John looked horrible. Blood dripped from his nose and his ears. At some point he had managed to get the ropes off of him, but he was barely able to stand, leaning heavily against the wall behind him. 

“What did you do?” Moriarty shouted. 

John laughed, it sounded weak and wrong, “I took all of the symbols off. I set them all free, and they took their power with them.” 

Moriarty turned and started to run towards John, his features contorting on the way. By the time he reached John, he didn’t look like a man at all. John didn’t move, he just lifted up the hand he wasn’t using to support himself, and he stared at Moriarty as he ran toward him. 

Sherlock couldn’t think of anything else to do but to run towards the two of them as well. When he was a few meters away he heard John say “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you’ve really got to move on.” Then there was a burst of wind and light. Something forced him backward, leaving him sprawled on the ground a foot from where he had been. 

“John!” He shouted, scrambling to his feet. John had slumped down the wall, but he remained upright. Somehow. 

Moriarty was gone, and the guards had left. 

Sherlock finally sank to his knees beside the man who looked half dead, “are you alright? John, are you alright!” 

John’s eyes were bloodshot and unfocused, “are you?” 

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Sherlock assured, taking hold of John’s shoulders. Surely he should be lying down in this state. 

“Good,” John nodded once, and then fell unconscious in his arms. 

–

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are always welcome! :)


	11. Please Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sits with John in the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter this time. One more to go! 
> 
> Kudos and comments always welcome :)   
> Thanks for reading!

When John passed out in his arms, Sherlock dialed the first person he thought of for help: Mycroft.

Mycroft men arrived within five minutes. John was picked up and taken to the hospital, Sherlock at his side the whole time. He did not know what would happen to the bodies in the warehouse. It was Mycroft’s problem now. 

At the hospital, John was wheeled behinds doors where Sherlock could not follow. A nurse directed him to a waiting area. He slid into a chair without taking his eyes off of the door. 

Lestrade showed up soon after, his face and posture told Sherlock that he was about to get a lecture, but none came. Instead, Lestrade just sighed and sat down beside him. 

Sherlock would have thanked him if he had had the ability to talk. 

–

He sat in the waiting room of the hospital for 3 hours 22 minutes and 19 seconds before someone came out to talk to him. John was stable, but they did not know anything else. 

Sherlock asked why it had taken 3 hours 22 minutes and 19 seconds for them to tell him this useless news. He said it in such a way that was apparently ‘rude’ and ‘violent’, but thankfully Lestrade was there to sooth things over. 

After 3 hours 31 minutes and 28 seconds, Sherlock was finally able to see John again. 

He looked much the same as when Sherlock had held him in the warehouse, except somebody had whipped away the blood. His skin was still pale, and his chest barely moved with his shallow breathes. 

Sherlock glanced around the room. It was small, but there were no other patients. Mycroft’s doing.   
Sherlock pulled up one of the few chairs in the room, took John’s hand, and settled in to wait. 

–

10 hours 5 minutes and 12 seconds after he was admitted into the hospital, John’s eyelids flickered.   
Sherlock clutched his hand, but nothing else happened. 

That was fine. He could wait. 

–

22 hours 15 minutes and 23 seconds after John had been admitted into hospital, Mrs. Hudson came in for a visit. She brought clothes for the both of them, and some food for Sherlock.   
She also convinced him that he could go to the loo for a few minutes without missing anything. She would call if anything happened. 

Sherlock had begrudgingly agreed to the plan.

–

28 hours 49 minutes and 37 seconds after John had been admitted into the hospital, Sherlock was jerked awake by a woman walking into their room. 

She was small, well dressed, and familiar looking. It was only when she started to talk that he realized who she was, John’s cousin from the United States. 

“Sherlock, I am so sorry,” she said as she approached him. Sherlock stood up to greet her, but he was unsure what to do. She answered that question by engulfing him in a hug. 

“Are you-” Sherlock paused for a moment to clear his throat, “are you listed as next of kin?” 

That would explain how she had arrived so quickly, and why none of John’s other relatives had shown up. 

“Yes. Well, both Harry and me, has she been in?” 

Sherlock shook his head. Melinda frowned, but moved passed it quickly, “I was actually already on my way. Someone had sent a car to get me. They told me we were practically family now? Would that be someone you know…?”   
Sherlock rolled his eyes, “my brother, Mycroft.” 

Melinda nodded. She slipped passed Sherlock to get closer to John, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

“What have the doctors said?” 

“Not much. They don’t know why John is in a coma, or how long it will last. Whatever this is it has something to do with the ghosts. Um, there was a ghost, Moriarty-” 

“You don’t need to tell me,” Melinda cut him off, “Mycroft’s assistant told me everything on the way here.” 

“Of course,” Sherlock ran his hand over the bed sheet, feeling out of place not being the person by John’s side. “I’ll give you a minute with him.” 

“Thank you,” She smiled at him again and he turned to slip out of the room. As he was closing the door, he watched her bend over John’s body and begin to whisper something. 

Sherlock leaned against the wall, looking down the hallway. Maybe he should go get them both some coffee. That’s what people did, right? Get coffee for their lovers family members?   
But the thought of leaving the area stopped him cold. He needed to be there when John woke up. 

Tapping raised him out of his thoughts, Mycroft was walking down the hallway towards him. 

Sherlock looked away. He didn’t need Mycroft’s condescending sneer right now. He had always warned him that attachments were not beneficial. Sherlock hadn’t listened, now look where they were. 

The same place Sherlock always ended up. First his father, then Victor, now John. When would he learn. 

“Brother mine..” Mycroft began. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe he would go away if he ignored him. 

“I came to apologize.” 

Surprised, Sherlock looked up. 

“I have known for sometime now about the ghosts in London. I have also known that one dark force in particular has been focusing in on you. I thought that if you continued as normal, I would be able to draw him out and interfere before you became aware of it. I had not anticipated Dr. Watson’s involvement in your life.. it, complicated matters. I did not warn you, either of you, and I apologize.” 

Sherlock absorbed this information, “that’s how your people arrived so quickly. They were already on their way.” 

“Yes.” 

“Moriarty was going to kill me and make us both powerful ghosts who could destroy cities if we wanted to.”   
“Yes,” Mycroft fidgeted, “that would have been unfortunate. Thankfully John was there to stop it.” 

“Yes.” Sherlock looked back down. He was still unsure of how John was able to do that, though he didn’t want Mycroft to know that. 

“From what my people tell me, John pushed all of the spirits back into the afterlife. Something they have only ever heard rumors of before. John is a rare breed, even among those who speak with the dead.” 

Sherlock nodded, wondering if John had been aware of this before the warehouse. 

“Moriarty had taken the bodies and spirits of English citizens from the past few centuries. He even hired an assassin to kill more so that he would have enough. When John wakes up, I would like to thank him on behalf of the British government for what he has done for his people. We are glad he is on our side.”

Sherlock smirked, “and you would like to keep it that way?” 

Mycroft straightened his posture, “yes.” 

They looked at each other for a moment, studying each others expressions. 

“You’ve known about ghosts. You knew about father.” 

Mycroft turned away first. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“I apologize again, Sherlock. I didn’t want to bring up our old fight. Not after we had finally started talking again...” 

Sherlock nodded. He didn’t understand the sentiment, but he would talk to John about it later. 

A woman walked up beside Mycroft, caring a coffee tray. Mycroft took one of the coffees, before passing the other two to Sherlock. 

“My best wishes to John. I hope he wakes up soon.” 

“Thank you, Mycroft.” 

They share a smile, or what would pass for a smile between the two of them, before Sherlock slipped back into the room. 

He felt more at peace with his family life than he had in decades. 

–

Melinda had moved to the other side of the bed, and was gently holding John’s hand. She smiled at Sherlock when he handed her the coffee.   
“Any change?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. 

“No. I’m sorry.” 

Sherlock gave a rueful smile, “I should be saying that to you.” 

“Why? Your his partner. You two love each other just as much as John and I love each other.” 

Sherlock looked at her in surprise, “John told you that?” 

“Of course,” She laughed, “we tell each other everything.” 

Seeing his expression, her own sobered, “oh, you mean you two haven’t talked about that yet.” 

Sherlock looked down at his hand. When he had sat down, it had automatically moved back to its place on top of John’s. Sherlock had not even had to make a conscious effort to do so. He imagined their fingers intertwining as they confessed their love for each other. He hoped they would get the chance. 

“No.” He replied softly. 

“It’s okay. John knows.” 

“I’m not so sure. When was the last time you talked to him?” 

Melinda hesitates, its slight, but Sherlock sees it. Her eyes flash to the side of Sherlock for a second before she answers, “the morning of the day he was hurt.” 

She’s hiding something. Sherlock straightens, his hand tightening on John’s. 

“Why does it matter when I talked to him last?” Melinda asks. Pushing for something. 

“We had a fight, I said somethings. Things that could make him doubt my commitment to our relationship.” 

Again, Melinda’s eyes flicker to his left. It’s a familiar movement, one that Sherlock has seen on John’s face many times before. 

There’s a ghost in the room. 

Panicked, Sherlock’s eyes jump to John’s heart monitor. It looks the same as the last times Sherlock checked it.   
Can Melinda see ‘spirits’ if they are not yet dead? 

“I’m sure John wouldn’t stop loving you over one fight.” 

“How would you know?” 

“Because I know him.”   
Sherlock looks at her for a moment, thinking. 

“How did you know to move to that side of the bed? It would seem reasonable to sit in the chair you had been standing beside when I left.” 

Melinda grinned, she gave up her secret easily, “John told me that was your side.”

Sherlock nodded, his theory was correct. 

“Does this mean he’s not coming back to me?” he finally asks, horrified that his voice cracks at the end. 

Melinda swiftly rose from her chair, leaning across John’s still body to place her hand over the two of theirs. Her eyes were full of a fierce kindness when they locked with his. 

“No, Sherlock, it means he is fighting his hardest to get back to you.” 

–

After the 72 hour mark, Sherlock decided that it would be better to think of John’s stay in the hospital in days. 

Melinda was able to spend four days in London before returning to her life with her own boyfriend in the U.S. She made Sherlock promise that they would visit, since none of them were sure if John would remember this time when he woke up. 

Sherlock missed her company when she was gone. It had been interesting to experience the other side of John’s one sided conversations. Now that she was gone, he no longer had a way to talk to John, to make sure he was still there with him. 

Over the eleven days the two of them had a number of visitors. Harry Watson came in once, while Melinda was still here. She was drunk, and accused Melinda of stealing her sisterly role in John’s life. Melinda didn’t respond, and neither of them talked about it after security removed Harry from the hospital. If Melinda kept a sympathetic eye on where Sherlock assumed John was, Sherlock didn’t say anything. 

Lestrade came in a few times, each time carrying a cuppa for Sherlock. Molly came in twice, the first time she stammered an apology for how she had acted in the lab. Sherlock brushed it off, saying they all had their bad days. Mrs. Hudson came in almost everyday, always making sure Sherlock had something to eat.

Mummy sent flowers, and John received a few get well cards from people he served with in the military. 

Otherwise it was mostly just Sherlock holding John’s hand, waiting for John to hold it back. 

–

On the morning of the twelfth day in hospital, Sherlock woke from is usual position. He slept hunched over John’s bed, his head resting near his knees. 

This time he woke up with a hand resting in his hair, instead of under his hand. Sherlock sat up, eyes wide. 

John was finally awake.


	12. I Think This is Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John get a happy ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's all folks! 
> 
> Thank you to anyone who has read this story while I was writing it :)   
> and to anyone who comes along and reads it after. 
> 
> This was my first story that I posted while still working on it. Which is a bit stressful! So thanks to everyone who left kind comments! They really motivated me to get this finished. 
> 
> As of right now I do not have any plans for a sequel for these two ghost seeing love birds. But, never say never. 
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are always welcome!   
> Thanks again, everyone! I hope you enjoyed the story as much as I enjoyed writing it! :)

Two Weeks later: 

Sherlock stood outside the hospital, intently watching the doors in front of him. The people exiting the building gave him odd glances, but Sherlock ignored them. He only cared about one thing today. 

John Watson was coming home. 

Sherlock had arranged for Mycroft's car to arrive a few minutes before he estimated John's nurse would push him through these doors. Sherlock had wanted to be the one pushing the wheelchair, but John had insisted that he do that part alone. Sherlock had could settle for waiting by the door a little longer. 

As Sherlock waited he thought about John's stay in the hospital. He had never been so worried in his life as he had been when John was in a coma. Sherlock felt closer to John now than he had before, including the night they had stayed up and told each other all their secrets. 

But when John had woken from his coma, it became clear John did not remember his stay in the hospital. He barely remembered what had happened in the warehouse. He had also thanked Sherlock for bringing him some clothes... He had assumed that Sherlock had been able to return home after John was injured. He had assumed Sherlock had not spent every second at his bedside, wishing for him to wake up. 

Sherlock had not known how to correct him. He had just nodded. 

Then John had undergone two weeks of tests, sleep, and more tests. When they had managed to spend time alone together, John had asked questions, but Sherlock could tell something was off. They doctors were still unsure as to why John had been in a coma, as he seemed to be a healthy man. Although he tired easily, and was weaker than he had been before the warehouse. Sherlock just needed to get John home. Then they could solve John's problem together. 

Finally, the doors opened and John was there. His face broke out into a smile when he saw Sherlock, and Sherlock felt his heart flutter in response. 

Sherlock smiled down at the man, opening the car door for him. He knew better than to offer John help into the car, but he made sure John was fully seated before he shut the door. 

After thanking the nurse, Sherlock went around to climb into the car himself. Instinctively, Sherlock reached his hand out between them, resting it on top of John's before he even realized what he was doing. Sherlock immediately started to pull it back, embarrassed by his own sentiment, when John flipped his hand over to stop him. He laced their fingers together with a gentle hum. 

John glanced down at their hands, “it's funny, I feel like we've held hand's like this a lot, but I can't actually remember a single instance of it happening.” 

“I held your hand while you were in hospital.” 

“Oh...” 

They each turned their attention to the windows, deep in their own thoughts. They held onto each other for the entire ride home.

\--

Sherlock watched John as he looked around the living area of Baker Street. He wasn't sure what John could be looking for, seeing as the Sherlock had barely been in this room since the day John had been kidnapped. 

“I'm sorry, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock looked at him with even more confusion, “what for?” 

“The last time we were in this room together, we had a fight. I remember thinking at the warehouse that that was could have been the last time we talked to each other... I didn't want it to end that way.” 

Sherlock looked down, toeing off his shoes before he responded. 

“I should be the one apologizing. Moriarty had been manipulating my emotions since that morning. I should have realized.” 

“That wasn't your fault.” 

“The fight wasn't your fault either.” Sherlock countered. 

John chuckled, sitting down in his chair. He looked tired already. “Then I guess neither of us should apologize.” 

Sherlock smiled, “agreed. Tea?” 

“Please.” 

Sherlock went about making the tea. Setting up the mug, and boiling the water. When he brought the drink over to John, the man was staring off into the distance, clearly in deep thought. Sherlock set the mug down beside him, like John had down for him many times before. 

As Sherlock sank down into his own chair, John snapped out of his reverie. 

“Sherlock?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Was Melinda in London?” 

Sherlock took a sip of his tea, hesitating. 

“I remember.. I remember talking to her, in person. But that can't be true.” 

“She was here when you were fist admitted into hospital.” 

“Before I woke up.” 

“Yes.” 

“Which means..” 

“You spoke to her.. In another form, yes.” 

John leaned forward, rubbing his hands over his face, “I hadn't realized it was that bad.” 

“It was,” Sherlock cleared his throat of the sudden lump in it, “it was pretty bad.” 

John glanced up at him, and then down at his own hands, resting against his legs. 

“You were so worried.” John said. But it did not sound like a question, so Sherlock did not respond. 

“You held my hand the whole time. I could feel it, even though I couldn't move it to hold yours back. Every time I thought you would leave, you didn't. If it wasn't for Mrs. Hudson, I don't think you would have even changed out of your clothes once.” John looked up at him, a smile on his face, “Sherlock, I remember!” 

He and John moved at the same time, meeting between the chairs in a hug. 

“When I first woke up, the doctors told me it was mild. It had only been a few days.. but they don't know how close it was, Sherlock. I almost left. I only stayed in the chance I would get back to you.” 

“I know, Melinda told me.” Sherlock buried his nose in John's hair, inhaling his sent. 

“I did it. I came back to you.” 

“I knew you would.” 

\--

That night they ordered Chinese, sitting in the living room as the telly played something neither of them was paying attention to. John didn't seem to want to be more than a foot away from Sherlock at a time. Sherlock didn't mind. 

As they finished their take away, and the show's credits began to run, everything got quiet. Peaceful.   
Sherlock turned off the TV. He didn't want a new episode to ruin it. 

“Sherlock..” John whispered. Sherlock turned his head, and John's mouth was on his. His hand came up to cup his cheek, his fingers running down the back of his neck. Sherlock shivered, leaning into John's touch. 

John pulled away first, but still stayed leaned forward, pushing their foreheads together. His eyes were closed, so Sherlock closed his too. 

“Thank you.” John said. 

“What for?” 

“You stayed with me. Even when I don't know what's wrong with me.. you're still here.” 

“Of course.” 

“No ones ever stayed with me before.” John's voice sounds strange. Sherlock pulls back to find him crying. He whips away John's tears with his thumbs. 

“I'm not going anywhere.” He promises, pulling John in closer. Sherlock leans back on the couch, holding John against his chest. It takes a long time for the tears to stop. 

Finally, John calms down. “I'm not going anywhere either, you know.” 

Sherlock smiles, “I know.” 

They stay silent for a moment, each in their own thoughts. Until John whispers another confession. 

“I haven't seen a ghost since I woke up in the hospital.” 

Sherlock leaned back to see his face, “really?” 

John nodded, “I thought maybe it was just the wing of the hospital we were in, but I didn't see any when I was discharged. Or on the ride here.” 

“That's why you wanted to be discharged by yourself. So you could look around without me rushing you.” 

John nodded again. 

“Moriarty was a powerful ghost. Maybe he limited your power when you removed his?” 

“I don't know. I've never dealt with any of this before. It might come back, it might not. I can't decide if I'm relieved or upset..” 

“From what I have heard, it is okay to have more than one emotion for something.” 

“Yea?” John smiled up at him, teasing, “sounds like great research, Mr. Sociopath.” 

Sherlock smirked back, “well, I have been known to have an emotion or two myself.” 

“Hmm? Which ones?” John was moving in his seat, swivelling around so that he was more straddling Sherlock instead of leaning against him. Sherlock was happy to help support him, placing his hands on John's hips. 

“Let me think, lust, desire... love.” 

John smiled down at him, “me too, Sherlock. Now take me to bed.” 

“What about your ghost problem?” 

“I don't want to think about that right now. I just want to think about you.” 

“Alright.” Sherlock got a good hold onto John's arse, and lifted them both off the cough. John's surprise face was well worth the back pain he was bound to feel tomorrow. 

John worked on their shirts and Sherlock stumbled towards the bedroom. After depositing John on the bed, Sherlock made quick work of his buttons and fly. He had a fully naked John splayed out on his bed in no time. 

“Sherlock,” John said as he leaned forward to do the same for him, “I want you tonight.” 

“You'll have me,” he whispered as he kicked his pants away, kissing his way up John's stomach to suck on his neck. 

“No, I mean, I want you inside me.” 

Sherlock paused, raising his head to see John's face, “really?” 

“Yes.” John curled his legs around him, and Sherlock could feel his erection push against his belly. 

“Okay, let me get some supplies.” 

Sherlock reached for his bedside drawer, pulling out a condom and the lube he had put in their just in case.

John had wiggled his way up to the centre of the bed, and was positioning a pillow under his lower back. 

“Done this before?” 

“Yes. Haven't you?” 

“Well, yes.”

“Then get your fingers inside of me already!” 

Sherlock quickly moved over, positioning himself between John's spread legs. He gently worked his first finger in, leaning in to kiss John as he did so. 

As he worked his fingers into John's arse, John ran his hands up and down Sherlock's back, eventually staying near the top, playing with the tips of Sherlock's hairs. 

Sherlock broke away as he worked a third finger in, working his mouth against John's throat instead. 

“Have I mentioned how much I love you today?” John moaned, moving his hips in time with Sherlock's fingers. 

“Tell me again.” 

“I love you. I love you so much I could burst. I never thought I could love anyone as much as I love you.” 

“I love you too, John.” 

“I know, love, I know.” John moaned as Sherlock crooked his fingers inside of him, “I'm ready when you are Sherlock.” 

Sherlock leaned back, grabbing the condom and slipping it on before applying a layer of lube onto his own erection. He lined up before looking down at John again. “Ready?” 

“Yes!” 

Sherlock pushed in slowly, savouring the sensation. With this amount of tightness, he was not sure he would last long. After a few thrusts, John began to move his hips as well. Sherlock felt like they were attached, like he was as close as he could be with another human as possible. 

He leaned forward to grab John's mouth, they both moaned when the movement drove him deeper inside of the man. 

Sherlock worked his hand between the two of them. He grabbed John's cock in his hand, glad there was still enough lube on it that it made the hand job smooth. John was a mess underneath him, moaning with his head pushed back against the pillow. 

Two more thrusts and Sherlock felt his orgasm near. He quickened his pace, and felt John grab onto his arse. 

“Come for me, Sherlock, come inside of me.” 

Sherlock let out a shout as he came, feeling himself shake against John. They stayed that was for a second, before Sherlock pulled out and slithered down he bed. He did not hesitate as he took John's erection into his mouth, sucking on the head as he placed his fingers back into John's arse. 

“Oh God, Sherlock, don't stop!” 

Never. He never wanted to stop. Unfortunately, in a very short time John was coming into his mouth. Sherlock swallowed it all before leaning his head on John's hip. They were both panting. 

\--

That night, after they had both cleaned up, Sherlock and John slept in the same bed for the first time in two weeks.   
It was the best sleep Sherlock had ever had. 

\--  
30 years later

John looked over their yard, smiling as he watched his husband fret over the new hives that had arrived this morning. It had been a year since they had moved to Sussex, but Sherlock was just as excited about bee-keeping as he had been when he first told John the idea. John had been happy to follow the love of his life onto his next adventure.

John felt something brush against his legs, and knelt down to pick up the nearest stick to throw. As it whisked through the air he watched their dog chase after the stick, followed by their dog that only he could see. 

John stretched out his arms and turned back towards the house. Their was a woman sitting in one of the dining room chairs, someone who had not been their before. 

While their crime fighting days were over, John still had people he could help. 

“Come on Gladstone, Redbeard.” He called after the dogs, “we've got a new ghost to help.”

\--

The End


End file.
